


Hide and Seek

by LadyCavil



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Betting, Constance is incredible, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Friendship, Frustrated Athos, Gen, Hide and Seek, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Porthos, Hurt/Comfort, Louis still acts like a child, Mission related crossdressing, Running through the woods, Sleepwalking, d'Artagnan is d'Artagnan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-30 01:07:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 23,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3917518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyCavil/pseuds/LadyCavil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection scenarios in which the Musketeers (and random cast of others) play hide and seek for serious (and occasionally not-so-serious) reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Game

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Прятки](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5769322) by [aqwt101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqwt101/pseuds/aqwt101)



                “But, Captain, it’s _just_ a broken arm!”

                Athos and Porthos exchanged glances as they approached Aramis’ room at the garrison and overheard Aramis bemoaning the fact that Captain Tréville refused to return him to active duty until the aforementioned broken limb had a chance to heal properly.

                “It’s not up for discussion, Aramis,” they heard Tréville reply, and they hastily moved away from the door when they heard footsteps moving toward it.

                “Captain,” they greeted as the man emerged from the room and closed the door behind him.

                “Gentlemen,” Tréville responded. “I don’t care what it takes, but you need to find something he can do to occupy him until he’s fit for duty.”

                Porthos grinned from ear to ear. “Isn’t that your job?”

                Tréville only answered by placing his hat on his head and stalking off to his office. Athos raised an eyebrow, and Porthos shrugged his shoulders before they entered Aramis’ room.

                There on the bed sat one thoroughly displeased looking Aramis, his right arm bound in a sling and his head leaned back against the wall in a display of unadulterated boredom. When he heard the door open, he cracked an eye to see who was visiting, and he perked up when he saw Athos and Porthos.

                “Porthos! Athos! Will you do me a favor?” Aramis poured every ounce of hope and charm he possessed into his words.

                “No. We _will not_ convince Tréville to return you to duty before your arm can heal,” Athos stated knowing exactly what Aramis was about to ask of them. Aramis’ mouth fell open.

                “You forget how well we know you,” Porthos added with a smirk. Aramis released a long sigh which turned to a moan when it neared its end. “We could…play a game?” Porthos offered thinking it probably would receive an eye roll and a groan but nothing more.

                Aramis rolled his head to face Porthos properly and considered his brother for a moment. “What game?”

                Porthos looked to Athos for help because surely, coming up with the idea was enough of a contribution. Aramis joined Porthos in staring at Athos, and Athos began to feel cornered.

                “Uh, we could, um…” Athos stuttered, suddenly unable to come up with any game worth playing.

                “We could play cards?” Porthos suggested.

                “Porthos, you won the majority of my funds last night. My purse cannot handle any further losses.” Aramis offered a small smile making Porthos chuckle in response.

                “I’m sorry, but all I can think of is hide-and-seek,” Athos said and rubbed his hands across his face. Aramis and Porthos looked to each other to gauge one another’s acceptance of the game.

                “Sounds fine to me. Aramis, do you think you can play with that arm?” Porthos teased and was met with one of Aramis’ more amusing than intimidating facial expressions.

                “Of course I can! Athos, since hide-and-seek was your idea, you can count first.”

                It was Athos’ turn to let his jaw drop. He was about to protest but then closed his mouth, confident that he could find his brothers quickly and thus not be the seeker for long.

                “All right, we need boundaries,” Porthos reminded them.

                “Stay within the garrison,” Athos stated. Porthos and Aramis took a moment to consider the space they would be restricted to, and then each nodded in turn.

                “Fair enough,” Aramis conceded as he rose from his bed. “Count to….60?” He glanced between his brothers in search of objections or amendments. Once again all were in agreement.

                Athos settled himself on Aramis’ bunk to count in comfort while Porthos and Aramis moved to stand by the door.

                “No peeking!” Aramis said just to have it said.

                “Or any other cheating,” Porthos tacked on.

                “Like what?” Athos asked for the sake of clarification.

                “No moving once the count is up.”

                “No asking for help.”

                “From bystanders or players?”

                “Both!”

                “No….tricking people into coming out,” Aramis said as though he had fallen prey to this particular method many times before.

                “What do you mean?” Porthos inquired.

                “No faking emergencies.”

                “Or pretending Tréville needs to speak with us,” Athos added. It seemed to Porthos that his brothers must have been tricked many times before with those very tactics.

                “Satisfied?”

                “For now,” Aramis said although he was still trying to recall all the ways he had cheated and been cheated in games of hide-and-seek.

                “One.” Athos laughed when Aramis and Porthos hastily scrambled to the door. Porthos jerked the window curtain closed while Athos turned his back to the door and called “Two!”

                “Close your eyes!” Aramis demanded, and then Athos was left alone to count in silence with closed eyes and the slightest of smiles.

                Athos took his time reaching sixty. He’d learned from his experiences playing with Thomas that the longer the count drew out, the greater the urge to change hiding places became.

                “Ready or not, here I come,” he whispered and left the room. After all, there was no reason to go shouting about hide-and-seek all through the garrison.

                First he checked his room and Porthos’ although he did not expect to find either brother there. It was a precaution, nothing more. Satisfied with emptiness of their living quarters, Athos made his way down the stairs to search the common areas of the garrison. When he was nearly halfway down, he paused and looked toward the door to Tréville’s office. They never said the captain’s space was off limits. He turned, ascended the stairs, and walked to Tréville’s office. He took a deep breath and knocked.

                “Enter.”

                Athos was immediately greeted by the sight of Porthos sitting in front of the captain’s desk. Clearly he’d thought Athos was unlikely to search there so soon if at all.

                “I’m not…”

                “First to be found? You most certainly are,” Athos chuckled and grinned as he turned to seek out Aramis, the sound of Porthos’ grumbling following him out of Tréville’s office.

                Fairly certain Aramis was not also hiding somewhere on the second floor, Athos descended the stairs.

                “If I were Aramis, where would I hide?” Athos wondered quietly. Behind him, he heard Porthos mutter something about skirts and the beds of beautiful women. Athos shook his head in amusement and headed for the infirmary and from there he systematically made his way around the garrison. When at last he found himself standing outside of the armory, Athos found he was desperately hoping to find Aramis inside. Otherwise, he would have to search the rooms of the other Musketeers, something he was not looking forward to explaining.

                In a back corner of the armory, Athos came across several barrels that seemed to create a convenient wall to hide behind. He craned his neck around one and found Aramis lounging behind the barrels while munching on a piece of bread.

                “Hullo, Athos,” Aramis beamed as he made his way from his hiding place.

                “Aramis,” Athos returned the greeting with a dip of his head.

                “Ah, Porthos! I see you’ve been found first!” Aramis cried with delight as he patted the large Musketeer’s shoulder. “Well, you know how this goes. Up to my room with you then!” Aramis pushed Porthos in the direction of the armory door and then the stairs.

                “But I hate having to find people! Aramis, can’t you just be the seeker?” Porthos whined.

                “Porthos, you’re no fun when you complain. You were found first, so deal with the consequences and hide better next time!”

                Athos smirked, Aramis stuffed the remainder of his snack into his mouth, and Porthos gloomily made his way back to Aramis’ room where he began the count.

                “ONE!” he moaned and flopped down onto the bed.


	2. The First Game, Part II

                “Three,” Porthos muttered as he lounged across Aramis’ bed. His feet were near Aramis’ pillow but not on it. Unhappy as he was about being the one to count, he was not in such a foul mood that he would risk his life by putting his boots on Aramis’ pillow. His left arm was folded beneath his head while he spun a knife with his right.

                “Fou-“

                “PORTHOS!” Aramis called and threw the door open.

                To say that Porthos was startled would be an understatement. Of course he’d been listening for footsteps or any other sounds that might give some sign as to where his brothers were hiding, but Aramis was an expert at moving silently through the garrison. So when Aramis made his loud entrance when he should have been hiding, Porthos jumped to his feet and nearly threw his knife out of instinct.

                “Christ, Aramis,” Porthos swore and worked to return his heart rate to normal.

                “Were-were you lying on my bed?” Porthos looked very much like a cornered animal. “Were you lying on my bed with your filthy boots by my pillow?! Porthos du Vallon, how many times have I-“

                “Aramis,” Athos said in that tone of voice that could make a fire forget how to burn.

                Aramis took a deep breath, and Porthos knew by the set of his brother’s features that he would hear about the pillow later.

                “Athos and I realized that we never discussed winning.”

                “Winning?”

                “Yes, winning, as in I stay hidden for so long that you give up and stop looking for me,” Aramis informed his dark skinned comrade.

                “You really think you can?” Porthos answered with sly grin.

                “Porthos, I accept your challenge.”

                “Wanna make it a bet?”

                “Gentlemen,” Athos interrupted. “Here’s what we will do. Aramis, if you can manage to hide and remain hidden from Porthos until dinner in an hour, you’ve won. Sound fair?” He looked between them with a look that seemed to say _Don’t make me regret my choice of game_. Each man nodded in turn, and Athos moved to the door. “Porthos, if you would be so kind as to restart the count.”

                “Oooooooooooooooooooone,” Porthos groaned and was tempted to chase after Aramis when the younger man laughed at his dislike for seeking.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                From the courtyard facing window in his office Tréville watched Athos make his way down the stairs and slip into one of the ground floor corridors. He had laughed when Porthos told him they chose to occupy Aramis by playing hide-and-seek, but the more he considered their game, the more he had a bad feeling about it. He wasn’t sure how, but he _knew_ it wasn’t going to end well. His feeling was confirmed when movement caught his eye and he saw where Aramis was headed. He brought the palm of his hand to his forehead, pinched the bridge of his nose, and turned away to pour himself an incredibly stiff drink.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                It was nearly twenty minutes later when, after searching the garrison twice already, Porthos found Athos. The elder Musketeer had managed to squeeze himself into one of the chests lining a few of the halls, and it took a moment for Porthos to help his friend out of the small space.

                “How did you get in there?” Porthos asked as they continued on down the hall.

                “Honestly, I have no idea,” Athos confessed and shook his head. “No sign of Aramis?”

                “Uh-uh. Did you see where he went?”

                “Porthos, are you asking me to help you cheat?” Athos said with a straight face although his tone bore the slightest hint of a smile.

                “I just thought it would be fun to take his pride down a bit.”

                Athos stopped and studied the bigger man for several seconds. “That does sound wonderful,” he admitted. “Unfortunately, I have no idea where he went….perhaps the captain saw him?”

                They made their way to Tréville’s office and inside found their captain refilling his glass.

                “Something I can help you with, gentlemen?” Tréville said without taking his eyes off of his filling glass.

                “We were hoping you might help us find Aramis,” Porthos stated.

                “You want me to help you cheat.” Tréville took his now nearly overflowing glass and sat behind his desk.

                “Well, yeah,” Porthos answered.

                “I won’t.”

                “But you know where he is,” Athos stated, assuming Tréville’s refusal to aid them (not inability, but refusal) and the captain’s consumption of what seemed to be at least a second glass of alcohol meant their captain knew exactly where Aramis was and was far from pleased by it.

                “When you find him- _IF_ you manage to find him, he’s not to leave his room for the next two days.”

                “That bad, eh?” Porthos chuckled at the thought of Aramis being confined to quarters for two whole days.

                “He’ll likely be stuck where he is until you can help him,” the captain informed them.

                Athos sighed and tilted his head back in exasperation. “Porthos, may I suggest a change in plan? Let him hide. Let him win. Then when he realizes he can’t get out of whatever he’s gotten himself into, he’ll have to call for help.”

                “That doesn’t sound like he’s won at all,” Porthos grinned. “Athos, my friend, I like the way you think.”

                With that, they left the captain’s office and went down to the dining hall content to wait Aramis out.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                Up on the roof, Aramis smiled to himself. He’d won! He’d heard Athos and Porthos speaking with each other as they crossed the courtyard, so he knew Athos had been found. All he needed to do was make it to dinner time. However, the gentle warmth of the sun after several days spent in his room soon had him drifting off to sleep.

                By the time his nap came to an end, the sun had set, and the night was growing cool. Shivering, he decided that, having won, he didn’t need to stay on the roof any longer. It wasn’t until he’d shimmied to the edge that he realized how great a mistake he’d made in choosing to hide on the roof with a broken arm. Normally getting down would have been easy enough, but he was going to have to swing his weight in order to land on the walk way below. He looked at his arm still secure in its sling and sighed.

                All in all his descent was going as well as it could right up until he heard Athos and Porthos in the courtyard below. He cursed, knowing it would only be a moment or so until he was spotted hanging by one arm from the roof.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                “Athos,” Porthos whispered and pointed to where their brother was dangling.

                “I’m getting drunk after this,” Athos muttered as they headed for the stairs in order to position themselves to catch their idiotic friend.

                “Only if I get to join you,” Porthos huffed, and Athos nodded his acceptance of Porthos’ terms.

                “Aramis, what the hell were you thinking?” Athos called as they drew near to him.

                “Ummmm, I don’t think I was, or at least not this far ahead,” Aramis grunted.

                “Hang on. We’re comin’,” sighed Porthos, and just then Aramis’ hand slipped.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                _I’m not going to yell. I’m not going to yell. I’m not going to yell_ , Aramis repeated to himself over and over again as he fell to the courtyard below, and he didn’t until he hit the ground and his right leg snapped beneath him. Everything passed in a sort of haze until a great deal of pain medication later.

                Captain Tréville, Athos, and Porthos sat near Aramis’ bed, but when the captain noticed Aramis’ return to wakefulness, he moved to stand over the injured Musketeer.

                “Congratulations, Aramis. You’ve managed to break your leg. No assignments and absolutely _no_ hide-and-seek until that leg is completely healed, understood?”

                Aramis quickly glanced at Porthos and Athos who both looked like they were desperately trying to keep from laughing.

                “Yes, captain,” Aramis said with resignation.

                Tréville left the room without another word, and Athos and Porthos moved much closer to Aramis’ bed.

                “You know, Athos, it’ll be much easier to keep him in bed this way,” Porthos smirked and shuffled a deck of cards.

                “ _Much_ easier,” Athos agreed.

                “I hate you both,” Aramis huffed and pulled his blankets over his head.

                When his brothers began to laugh, he stuck his left hand out from underneath the blankets and made a very rude gesture which only increased their laughter tenfold.


	3. A Not-So-Fun Leave, Part I

                Three days. Three nights.

                Three days since they last ate a proper meal.

                Three nights since they had a full night of rest.

                It’s been at least as much time since they’ve last been dry and warm as well.

                Athos is so furious he’s fully prepared to punch the next woodland creature he sees, no matter how cute it may appear. He’s not even sure how they got into this particular mess. Porthos had managed to secure leave for Athos, Aramis, and himself for two weeks, and, oh, how they’d needed this leave.

                For the past several months, Porthos slowly succumbed to a restlessness Athos has never witnessed before and Aramis claims there’s nothing to be done at times such as this but get Porthos away from the garrison for a while. Athos wonders if it has something to do with his friend’s time spent on the ocean, wonders if it’s the call of the sea that makes Porthos feel like a caged animal.

                As Easter drew near Aramis had withdrawn from the world. When Athos asked Porthos about it, he felt a fool for having forgotten the massacre on the border of Savoy. This Easter marked the third year since that red day, and Porthos was confident time away from Paris would help ease Aramis’ burden. While Athos felt sorrow for Aramis’ predicament, he’d been secretly excited when Porthos divulged his plans for the three of them to visit with Aramis’ family during the course of their time away. Apparently Porthos often wrote to Aramis’ sister often and the two of them had arranged their getaway some time ago.

                And Athos, he felt he could always use time away from Paris. He’d become so adept at drinking away his sorrows and the memories associated with that pain that he’d nearly lost himself several times over. Fortunately for him, Aramis and Porthos were set against losing their friend to the many taverns of Paris. He had no doubt that his brothers felt he needed the leave as much as they did.

                Thus they’d set out for Saint-Malo two weeks ago and spent the time with Aramis’ family relaxing and forgetting their troubles for a time. It was with great reluctance that they left the coast and began their return journey. By midmorning Aramis drew close to his brothers and informed them in hushed tones that he had a bad feeling about the area through which they were riding.

                When they dismounted for a short break and something to eat around noon, they did so in a small clearing in an otherwise dense wood, and Athos was pleased that, despite Aramis’ intuition and dislike for such thickly wooded spaces, the marksman was displaying an outward level of calm that rivaled his own. Athos had never been to the forest just inside Savoy where Aramis had nearly lost his life, but after far too many drinks one night, Porthos had described the scene to him. The place where they’d paused to rest was similar to the image his mind had constructed based on Porthos’ recollection. One shared look with Porthos told him that his brother was thinking much the same thing, and they silently agreed to depart as soon as they could.

                The snapping of a twig was the only warning they were given before they were set upon by five men whose attire and weaponry offered no identification nor other information to the Musketeers.

                Being the closest to the clearing’s edge, Aramis was the first to be attacked. Upon hearing the breaking of the stick, he’d brought his head up in search of the source, and before he could comprehend what he saw, his forehead was met by the hilt of a sword, and he dropped to the ground like a marionette whose strings have been cut.

                “ARAMIS!” Porthos roared as he flew across the small clearing to defend his brother from the sword arcing toward his unconscious, _not dead, he can’t be dead,_ brother’s chest.

                Athos charged after him and quickly engaged the first man that came within reach of his sword. In the time it took Athos to finish his opponent, Porthos had defeated three, his every stroke an outpouring of the fury written so plainly across his face. Porthos knocked the final man to the ground, and before their attacker could recover Athos drove his blade through the man’s heart.

                Porthos spun in a circle until his eyes fell upon the still form of Aramis, then sprinted to his side and fell to his knees. Athos whirled around in an attempt to locate their horses. He’d seen Aramis take the hit, and he was certain that bandages were at least needed if not also their stitching supplies. However, Athos was met with the sight of no horses but a trail they left behind as they bolted into the forest. He flinched when he heard voices calling out to each other deeper in the wood but clearly headed toward him and his brothers.

                “Porthos,” he called over his shoulder as he slowly backed toward where Porthos was kneeling behind him.

                “I hear ‘em,” Porthos stated, and Athos finally took his eyes off of the trees surrounding them when he registered the slight dismay in those three words. Athos crouched beside Porthos and let his eyes wander over Aramis’ body, checking for any indication of wounds received while Athos’ attention had been directed elsewhere. When his gaze finally landed on Aramis’ head, his stomach rolled. He knew head wounds were notorious for the amount of blood they produced, but that knowledge did not make the smearing pool of crimson covering Aramis’ forehead any easier to bear.

                “How bad is it?” he asked, his voice a mere whisper.

                “I can’t tell through all this blood,” Porthos sighed. Athos quickly pulled his neck scarf free and thrust it into Porthos’ hand.

                “The horses fled.” He was trying to make conversation and knew there had to be something better to talk about while Porthos tended the wound.

                “This needs stitching.”

                “We can’t stay here any longer.”

                Porthos nodded and wrapped the scarf around Aramis’ head, the marksman’s curls held out of Porthos’ way by Athos’ steady hand. The pressure put upon the laceration by the fabric elicited a groan from Aramis who stirred but never woke. Porthos gathered Aramis into his arms and stood. When Athos was sure Porthos could handle their brother’s weight, they set off into the woods, moving away from whoever was pursuing them. Not an hour later, storm clouds rolled in, and the heavens unleashed their watery fury upon the three Musketeers.

                So with the fourth day breaking upon them, Athos is tired and wet and hungry and furious and ready to just stop and _fight_ whoever is chasing them through the woods. Aramis hisses as Porthos readjusts the makeshift bandage covering his forehead. _Worried_. Athos is worried more than anything. Even though Aramis is awake and has been several times over the course of their strategic retreat, he’s never lucid for long. He needs water, food, to be dry, to rest, to see a doctor- Athos is sure the list could go on for some time. The bottom line is that his youngest brother is seriously concussed and running through the forest, even if he _is_ being carried most of the time, is not helping at all.

                “We can’t keep running,” Porthos growls.

                “I know,” Athos says and rubs a hand across his face. “But we can’t stand and fight.” Athos flicks his eyes to Aramis before looking back to Porthos. He knows from the slight dip in Porthos’ shoulders that his friend understands exactly why they cannot fight. They have no idea who is chasing them or how many people there are out to kill them. Should they choose to face their pursuers, they would spend the battle with attention divided between staying alive and protecting the defenseless brother.

                “Hide and seek.” Aramis’ voice is weak, so quiet Athos nearly misses what he says, but he knows from the smirk dancing across Porthos’ face that he’s heard Aramis correctly. Hide and seek.

                “It could work,” he admits.

                “Do we have any other plans?” Porthos is right, and Athos knows it. They can keep running or they can try outwitting their pursuers.

                “Hide and seek it is then. Porthos, take Aramis.” Porthos’ face becomes as stormy as the sky above when he realizes what Athos intends to do, and it’s obvious that Porthos is far from pleased with that plan. Athos does not bend under the weight of Porthos’ gaze. Porthos folds and nods; they have no other choice. “I don’t suppose I have to tell you losing is not an option.”

                “Athos, please,” Aramis says with mock offense.

                “I’ll find you when it’s safe,” Athos says as Porthos helps Aramis to his feet.

                “Good luck.” Porthos looks Athos straight in the eye, and Athos reads there everything Porthos won’t say for Aramis’ sake.

                Athos nods his thanks, slowly backing away from his brothers. Porthos guides Aramis away from the fallen log where they’d been resting; Athos counts to thirty before crashing off in the opposite direction making as much noise as he can without being too obvious about it.

                His distraction works well, distressingly well. He hears people tearing through the undergrowth after him, gaining on him with every step. _They’re like bloodhounds_ , Athos thinks as he continues his desperate dash. But his feet nearly cease carrying him forward when he hears a shout behind him, a call to split up. He wonders for a moment if his brothers have been spotted, if their game has been spoiled, but pushes the thought aside. _If_ they’ve been found, he has to save them, so he pushes himself harder towards what he prays is the forest’s edge. After days of running and hiding he’s certain he has to be close. God, help him if he isn’t.

                He keeps running, stays just close enough to be seen but never close enough to be shot. A short burst of hysterical laughter erupts from his chest when he can make out clear, flat land beyond the trees, and he stumbles in his exhaustion. He knows when the people chasing him can see it too. Several shots blow past him, and though they all go wide, he attempts to check his excitement. He cannot mess up now, _can NOT_ fail Porthos and Aramis now. He need only get out, find help, and find his brothers.

                Breaking through the last bit of foliage, Athos finds himself tumbling onto a road and nearly being trampled by several mounted Musketeers.

                _Mounted Musketeers!_

                “Athos!” The one that shouted jumps down from his horse and rushes to Athos' side. Athos can only point to the forest behind him and lie there panting for breath while his comrades dispatch the men who come rushing out of the woods. He’s not paying attention to the fight, instead focusing on regaining a suitable pattern of breathing so he can find his brothers.

                “Athos,” a Musketeer named Dante says as he comes alongside Athos once the fight ends. “You look like hell.”

                Athos nods, saving his energy for searching for Aramis and Porthos instead of defending his appearance, especially since he’s sure he probably does look like hell.

                “Where are Aramis and Porthos?” One good look at Athos’ reactions to these words tells Dante that the two missing Musketeers are somewhere in the forest Athos and the armed men burst forth from. “Were they being chased as well?” Dante’s face is serious and takes on a worried expression when Athos shrugs.

                “Think so. Not sure.”

                “Can you lead us to where you last saw them?”

                Athos nods and slowly stands, every exhausted muscle protesting movement so soon after being allowed to rest even if only for a short time. He hears Dante call out something to the other Musketeers but doesn’t pay attention to the exact words. He moves toward the forest’s edge anxious to find his brothers.

                “We’ll find them. Don’t worry, Athos,” Dante says as he steps closer to Athos.

                Athos hopes that Dante is right. More than that, he prays Aramis and Porthos actually engaged in something closer to hide-and-seek than his death-defying game of tag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A different kind of hide-and-seek.
> 
> If you have an idea for the guys playing hide-and-seek and want me to try my hand at it, I’d love to hear about it!


	4. A Not-So-Fun Leave, Part II

                Porthos is mad at Athos’ self-endangerment for three seconds before he turns his attention back to the tasks at hand: hide and stay alive. He repeats those four words in his head with all the gravity and desperation of a prayer.

                _Hide and stay alive._

                _Hide and stay alive._

                _Hide and stay alive._

                _Hide and stay alive._

                With every step Aramis’ energy wanes. Porthos finds himself readjusting Aramis’ weight with his left arm while he shifts his hold on Aramis’ arm around his shoulders with his right, a process he repeats after every few steps.

                _Just find a place to hide._

                He hears the men behind him yell something about splitting up and nearly growls in frustration.

                _We’re on leave, for Christ’s sake! Can’t we have a nice, relaxing leave like everyone else in the world?_

                “They don’t know where we are,” Aramis whispers while attempting to remain conscious.

                “What?”

                “Sounds like they’re looking, searching….like they aren’t sure.”

                Porthos listens intently to the forest around them and comes to the same conclusion as Aramis. One group is clearly moving in the opposite direction. _Chasing Athos,_ his mind supplies as if he were capable of forgetting. The other group seems to be casting about in the undergrowth headed toward yet slightly away from Aramis and Porthos.

                “Suppose they finally noticed they were following one man, not three.”

                They stumble on in silence for a time, focusing on tracking the progress of the men searching for them. At some point Porthos realizes he is guiding Aramis in the direction of the river he hears nearby. He recalls from previous rides through this forest that the river narrows and becomes shallower within the borders of the wooded area. There’s some other fact about this river that’s beginning to drive Porthos mad with his inability to summon it, but whatever it is, he knows it’s helpful, believes it could be the key to their survival.

                By the time Porthos sees the river, he’s practically carrying Aramis.

                “Porthos, stop,” Aramis pleads, face pale from the exertion and exhaustion. “Porthos, I can’t…”

                “Almost there, ‘Mis. Just a little further,” he urges although he slows his pace.

                Porthos looks around, searching the forest behind them for any sign of pursuit and turning back to the forest before him when he finds nothing new. Seeing the river causes him to remember why it’s where they need to go. The bank on their side of the river hangs over the water, creating a number of suitable hiding places. He can only hope there’s one large enough for both himself and Aramis.

                Reaching the fast moving water, Porthos eases his brother to the damp earth before stepping into the water in search a safe place to tuck themselves away in. Not far from where he left Aramis, Porthos finds an overhang created by a rock jutting out from the forest floor and protruding over the water’s edge. It seems big enough for the two of them, and he prays Athos has been at least as fortunate.

                The longer he stands partially immersed in the river the more he becomes aware of its nature. The water rushing around his legs is flowing faster than normal on account of the days of continuous rain, and it carries with it a chill that Porthos believes borders on the uncomfortable. Though it’s not his own comfort he worries about as he takes a second look at the potential hiding place, it’s Aramis’. His brother spent the early portion of his life living in warmer climates and has never fully adjusted to the comparative cold of northern France. In addition to this, Porthos fears for his brother’s health for what must be the ten thousandth time since the ambush; being submerged in the frigid river water cannot possibly do him any good.

                Now incredibly more irritated, Porthos surveys the surrounding area for a hiding place less likely to endanger their health but sees nothing but the normally inviting branches of the tall trees. If the situation was different, Porthos would give more consideration to hauling Aramis up into the shelter provided by the multitude of leafy boughs overhead. However, there is little if anything that Porthos can do about the circumstances of the game and even less to do about the exhaustion creeping into his bones, so he wades back to the river’s edge, climbs back onto the bank, and returns to Aramis’ side.

                “’Mis? You with me?”

                Aramis’ head hangs over his chest unmoving for a beat before it moves an inch to the right. Porthos wonders if perhaps Aramis is so far gone he can no longer spare the energy to hold his head up, but he wants, _needs_ , to be wrong because if this is the case, hiding in the cold water will likely push Aramis beyond his limits.

                Suddenly the clamoring of the party pursuing Porthos and Aramis is much closer than it was before, causing Porthos to abandon any doubts he has about their hiding place. He can’t afford any further hesitation, so he slips his arms around Aramis and walks quickly to the water’s edge, then moves slowly down river to avoid splashing about.

                Porthos is waist deep in the river before the water laps at Aramis. The injured Musketeer gasps at the unexpected chill carried by the moisture now spreading through his clothes. Porthos can do little more than shush him as he slides them into their watery refuge.

                It is, in no way, a large space, and now that Porthos faces the challenge of getting himself and his semi-conscious brother into it, he realized that Aramis will have to lie on top of him if they’re to fit together. The only alternative to is to hide Aramis in one place and himself in another, something Porthos finds unacceptable, especially in light of the fact that Aramis won’t be able to defend himself should they be found. Porthos maneuvers Aramis’ trembling form until the shaking man is floating atop Porthos with his head resting on Porthos' left shoulder. Porthos then uses his left arm to anchor Aramis above him while he uses his right to press the left side of his body against the rock of their shelter.

                “I lost my coat,” Aramis stutters, and Porthos understands why his brother chose that moment to lament his loss. Although it would only weigh him down now, it would have held his body’s heat for a little while longer than his thin shirt, a garment now soaked for days.

                The tall Musketeer opens his mouth to respond, but the men are far too close to risk speaking now. With his eyes Porthos tracks the general location and movement of the voices drifting down to where he and Aramis float, pressing themselves ever closer to the rock wall as if they could become one with it.

                Aramis’ shivering hands slowly begin moving, one coming to rest over Porthos’ arm across his chest as the other settles over his own mouth. He’s been gasping for breath ever since Porthos lowered him into the water, and while Porthos appreciates that his friend is at least aware enough of their surroundings to recognize that his sharp inhales will eventually give their position away if left unchecked, he wishes Aramis could be far away from the forest or, at the very least, completely unaware of their situation. Porthos prays the cold seeping into every fiber of their being won’t revisit Aramis in the small hours of the coming nights. They took leave when they did so he could get away from those nightmares, not so they could get chased through some godforsaken forest and lose him to the memory of the cold anyway.

                They hear several men jump into the river upstream of where they’re hiding causing Aramis to tense and leaving Porthos wishing he could do more to comfort him than tightening his arm that is still wrapped firmly around Aramis’ torso. He’s certain the gesture is all at once an expression of all he could and would say and yet somehow still falls utterly short considering it could be the last communication he ever has with his best friend.

                A pair of boots stops several feet away from Porthos’ face; the Musketeers stop breathing, their hearts beating strange rhythms in a mix of anticipation and fear. Porthos remains perfectly still despite the racing of his thoughts.

                _Why have they stopped? Have we been found? Are they baiting us? Have they found Athos?_

                The moment his mind turns to Athos he hears the familiar song of steel on steel echoing out from the direction Athos ran in. He doesn’t know if this is cause for hope or despair. _Surely Athos should be on the other side of the forest by now._ He turns his head toward Aramis and finds that his brother’s lips appear blue even in the shadow cast by the rock sitting above them.

                His attention is torn from his freezing brother by the man previously paused beside them hastily exiting the river to join the fray Porthos still hears above the beating of his heart and the rushing of the water. He isn’t sure if the skirmish is Athos’ doing, but he hopes that the outcome is in their favor.

                In time the fighting ends. Porthos waits, and waits, and waits for a sign, some clue that they’ve been saved, that they can crawl out of the river that’s robbing them of their life force.

                “PORTHOS! ARAMIS!”

                They both jump at the sound of Athos’ voice but make no move to reveal themselves.

                “What if,” Aramis’ teeth chatter as he attempts to whisper. “What if he-he’s not-“

                “He’ll let us know,” he whispers back. They fear that slight possibility that Athos is calling for them under duress. Porthos doesn’t think it’s a trick, but he can’t risk it with Aramis in the state he’s in.

                “YOU WIN!”

                _Athos is playing. Athos is_ still _playing. And we’ve won. We’ve actually won._

                Porthos chuckles, a sound he’s sure must border hysterical.

                “Hear that, ‘Mis?” He realizes he’s also shivering now. “You win.”

                “We……win?”

                “Yeah.”

                Aramis is back to gasping now that silence is no longer necessary; Athos is still calling out for them; Porthos is desperately trying to make his body move. The moment Porthos manages to drag Aramis and himself out from underneath the rock he yells anything he can think of; it doesn’t matter what he yells as long as he gets Aramis out of the water _now_.

                Within seconds Porthos and Aramis are surrounded by helpful hands lifting, guiding, carrying when necessary. When he reaches solid ground Porthos becomes aware of Athos hovering nearby. He thinks he’s acknowledged his brother, but his energy is spent after days and nights of running, hiding, being hungry like he hasn’t been in quite some time. He feels sleep pulling on him and resists only until he’s sure he can do no more for Aramis.

                The next time Porthos is truly awake he assumes several days have passed since he blacked out in the forest, and he finds Aramis curled into him, leeching Porthos’ warmth in standard Aramis fashion. On the other side of Aramis Athos cracks his eyes open. Porthos smiles at Athos, the knowledge that they’ve managed to survive filling him with a joy he can’t contain. Athos responds with what Porthos likes to think is the equivalent of his own bellowing laughter or that cheeky grin of Aramis’. Still it is the closest to Athos smiling Porthos has ever seen his friend get, and Porthos feels it’s appropriate after their week from hell.

                “If every game of hide-and-seek ends in one of us being hurt, I quit now,” Porthos mumbles as he pushes his head deeper into his pillow.

                “Technically, Aramis was hurt before we even started playing.”

                “Did you ever hide, Athos?”

                “….Nope.”

                “I can’t believe Aramis missed you saying ‘nope’.”

                “Didn’t miss it,” Aramis says without opening his eyes. “If you never hid, did you actually win?”

                “Yes.”

                “How?!” Porthos has no idea how a person could win a game he was never actually playing.

                “It was….a variation of hide-and-seek.”

                “What?!? Aramis, are you going to let him win like this?”

                “Well, if he was playing….hide-and-seek tag… Athos, were you tagged?”

                “No.”

                “He won, Porthos.”

                Porthos is stunned into silence by the injustice of it all. He listens to the sound of Aramis’ breathing even out and deepen as his brother falls back asleep.

                “Find out why we just had a not-so-fun leave?”

                “Dante questioned a few of the men who surrendered. He tried to tell me why they were pursuing us, but I was losing my fight with exhaustion. It’s not our concern for now. Get some rest, Porthos.”

                Porthos closes his eyes, not needing to be told twice to go back to sleep.

                “Night, Athos.”

                “Good night, Porthos.”


	5. What the King Wants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everybody! This chapter is written for/dedicated to riversidewren (on fanfiction.net) who asked for a game with an intoxicated Louis. Enjoy! :D

                “Entertain me!”

                Athos’ right eyebrow slid heavenward, and Porthos clenched his jaw in a valiant attempt to contain his irritation.

                “Have you not been entertained thus far?” Aramis’ eyes never left Porthos’ bicep as he inspected and then bound a shallow graze on his brother’s arm.

                “I’d hardly call being thrown out the tavern entertainment.”

                “You weren’t thrown out. You were chased.” Aramis muttered under his breath and rubbed a hand across the aching muscles of his neck, exhausted from a night of drinking, brawling, and babysitting a grown man.

                “Porthos, my champion! Surely you know of some exciting activity we can engage in.”

                “Your majesty, I don’t-“

                “How many times must I tell you three? Tonight I am a common man. The next person who uses a title or court formalities will be sent back to the garrison and not allowed to join when next I spend a night among my people.” Louis issued his threat with that patronizing expression that made Aramis want to do the exact opposite of what he’d just been told.

                From where Athos stood at the edge of the street lamp’s illuminating glow, he saw Aramis’ expression shift and a distressingly mischievous ember grew to a fire in his brother’s eyes. Athos drew Porthos’ attention to it, and they resigned themselves to the childish behavior that was bound to follow.

                “Please forgive our forgetfulness, sire,” Aramis said and gave a shallow bow.

                “ _Aramis!_ You’ve broken both rules at the same time!”

                Porthos lightly cuffed the side of Aramis’ head and was rewarded with an eyebrow arched in displeasure.

                “Tell me, what do the three of you do when you’re off duty?”

                “Depends,” Aramis began. “Some days I just go to the nearest whor-

                “-ticulturaly blessed area in the city. There’s no keeping him out of the garden,” Athos blurted out. He was beyond desperate to keep the king of France out of the city’s many brothels. Porthos immediately caught on to Athos’ attempt to keep the king away from working girls while simultaneously working to keep Aramis from being a complete ass. Fortunately Louis was drunk enough not to notice.

                “You would get along well with the queen, Aramis. She too is cursed with a dull love of nature. But enough talk of plants and gardens. I’M BORED!”

                Athos closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. _What have I done to deserve this?_

                “We could play a game?” Porthos suggested.

                “Oooh, yes! A game! What game?”

                “Uh, we could race? First one back to the palace gets…I don’t know…all of the winnings from tonight’s betting?” Porthos, like Athos and Aramis, was ready to return the king to the Louvre. It had been an incredibly long day followed by a so far ridiculously exhausting evening that featured brawling for Louis’ entertainment and subsequent profit. Porthos probably wasn’t going to see a single livre of it, so why not try to get his fair share another way? That might help his arm feel a tiny bit better at the very least.

                “Come now, Porthos. You can’t possibly think you could outrun me through my own city. I know Paris better than anyone, and you have far more bulk to carry. It wouldn’t be fair.”

                Porthos valiantly worked to silence the voice in his head demanding satisfaction for the king’s drunken comments; the appearance of Aramis’ arm on his shoulder at least aided him in ignoring his screaming pride.

                “Hide-and-seek! Let’s play hide-and-seek!” Louis exclaimed.

                “For the love of everything beautiful and good in this world, NO!” Aramis was practically seething.

                “Come now, Aramis. Don’t be such a spoil sport,” groaned the king.

                “A spoi- wha- did you just- did he just-“ Aramis sputtered, taking great offense.

                “Aramis,” Athos cautioned in a low voice.

                “Since I cannot trust your judgement in matters of recreational pursuits, Aramis, I see your objection as a sign that hide-and-seek is exactly what we should play.” Louis grinned in drunken delight, looking from Athos to Porthos for their approval.

                Athos smiled politely, the simple act putting to the test every lesson he’d learned in behaving in a manner befitting a comte.

                Porthos curled his lips to appease his monarch who accepted the gesture in blissful ignorance of the danger lurking just below the surface.

                Was Aramis overreacting? Perhaps, but it was hardly cause for the king’s behavior.

                “Aramis, I don’t like you right now, so you _will_ count first.”

                A predatory grin to rival Porthos’ spread across the marksman’s face, and Athos nearly groaned at the king’s foolishness even if he was secretly pleased that Aramis would have the satisfaction of humiliating their inebriated ruler. Despite his friend’s history of being injured during hide-and-seek, he was quite skilled at hunting down his brothers. The fact that they were playing with Louis, who even after consuming vast amounts of alcohol refused to dirty his clothes in any way and so would likely shy away from any decent hiding places, made the game infinitely easier for whoever was seeking.

                “With pleasure, your majesty,” he purred and bowed low, flustering the king even more.

                “That’s it, Aramis. After hide-and-seek, you are confined to the garrison for two weeks and are not invited to my next night out whenever that shall be.”

                “Boundaries, the game needs boundaries,” Athos prompted.

                “The city!” Louis declared.

                “You don’t want to do that.”

                “You’ll never find us.” Porthos, ever honest.

                “Nonsense,” pouted the king. “Besides Aramis is the one doing the finding. Or not finding. You’ll never find me, Aramis!”

                “Is that a command or a challenge?” Aramis yawned.

                “I don’t think it needs to be a command. I’m never found at the palace.”

                “Boundaries,” Athos repeated, his words now carrying two meanings.

                  “The alley,” Porthos answered before Aramis and Louis could resume their quarrel. “Stay in this alley. No going in the buildings. Aramis, count to sixty.”

                “You _can_ count to sixty, can’t you, Aramis?” Louis taunted as he meandered a little way away.

                Aramis turned to his brothers with his hands on his hips and looked toward the stars.

                “God willing, he’s sterile and the Bourbon line ends right here.”

                Porthos chuckled, and Athos’ mind began imagining scenarios centered on how easy it would be to make their troublesome charge vanish. After all, it was said on many occasions that one of their fellow Musketeers bore a striking resemblance to-

                “Athos.“ Porthos nudged the older man. “If you intend to make the king disappear, at least wait until the Red Guards are meant to be lookin’ after him.”

                Athos bobbed his head in acknowledgement, and Aramis began the count.

                Determined to find Louis first and in record time, Aramis concentrated solely on the drunken shuffle that moved in the direct opposite direction of the lighter, more sober gaits of Athos and Porthos.

                “Ready or not, here I come,” Aramis informed the players, his tone practically sing-song in nature.

                A giggle erupted in the direction he knew Louis went, and then another. Aramis followed the sound, content to allow the monarch to give himself away. Within seconds, Aramis stood in front of a covered doorstep looking into the eyes of the swaying, tittering king.

                “I’ve found you. First.”

                “You cheated!” came the childish whine.

                “What? How did I cheat?”

                “You peeked! Or…something…”

                “Face it, Louis. You’ve been caught. You lost. You lost more than anyone else, in fact,” Aramis pointed out with a slight shrug of his shoulders. Not waiting to witness the monarch’s reaction, Aramis walked away and set about locating his brothers. Neither had positioned himself in a place equal to their usual level of sneakiness. By unspoken agreement each man was working to end the night as soon as humanly possible. Thus Porthos had sat behind a barrel that was slightly smaller than himself, and Athos practically stood in plain sight behind an awning support beam.

                “Satisfied?” Athos asked a yet-grumbling Louis.

                “No, I will have my turn.” The now drunk _and_ displeased ruler of France glared at Aramis, the Musketeer not even trying to hide how much he was enjoying their game.

                “I believe the count is sixty, Louis.” It was painfully apparent to Porthos and Athos that Aramis was using the name to irritate the man more than obeying the previous command banning the typical respectful addresses.

                “It’s _KING_ Louis to you, _peasant_.”

                “Nevertheless, _my liege_ ,” Aramis mocked, bowing so low the feather of his hat would have scraped the dirt had he not removed his beloved headpiece before kowtowing.

                Louis waved a dismissive hand which had Aramis grinning at the way the movement upset the balance of the man who collapsed to the stones of the alleyway and promptly began counting.

                “One, six, two, one…”

                Athos wasn’t sure if he should laugh or cry. How were they going to get that man back to the Louvre? When he looked away from the intoxicated fool, he found Porthos looking at him with pleading eyes.

                “No, no, no, no, no. You are _not_ hiding with me.”

                “But Athos, I’m always found first.”

                “Go hide with Aramis; he’s annoyingly skilled at hiding in this city.”

                Porthos found Aramis about the time Louis yelled ‘fifteen’ at the stars.

                “Ah, Porthos,” Aramis smiled as Porthos crawled under an elevated platform to join him.

                “’Mis, why are you hiding here of all places?” The bigger man asked as he came even with his brother.

                “Because, hide-and-seek, like love and war is all about knowing your opponent.”

                Porthos nodded but then shook his head in confusion.

                “Our beloved king,” the half-Spanish man said with a dose of sarcasm, “is a clean man. In fact, he’s a clean nobleman.”

                “So he likes being clean?”

                “Which means he dislikes being dirty, even if he’s drunk. Once he gets back up to come looking for us, he’s not going back to the ground willingly.”

                “And the only way to find us is to get on the ground,” Porthos concluded, having caught on to his brother’s line of thinking. “No wonder why you’re good at this.”

                “He doesn’t stand a chance any way,” Aramis stated, and when he saw that he’d confused Porthos once more, he elaborated. “The last time you and I hid together, we won despite my head injury and the small army of crazy men chasing us through a forest possessing few adequate hiding places.”

                “We nearly froze to death.”

                “The point remains, brother; we’re unbeaten.”

                “Sure we are,” Porthos conceded. Aramis would not be swayed, and Porthos didn’t mind accepting the optimistic light Aramis was viewing their previous experience in.

                “Sixty!’ They heard Louis giggle.

                “Did he actually reach sixty?”

                “I believe he made it to twenty and gave up,” Aramis reported.

                Although they could see almost nothing from the small space in which they’d stashed themselves, they had no clue as to how the king’s search faired until they heard Athos some minutes later.

                “Oh, no.” Athos’ voice dripped boredom and sarcasm. “You found me.”

                His tone told Aramis and Porthos that Athos had not been found but rather placed himself in the king’s line of sight and simply declared himself found.

                This was followed by several seconds of indecipherable whispering before the relative quiet of their alley was thoroughly disrupted.

                “Help! I’m being attacked!” the monarch squealed, for no other word could be used to properly describe the pig-like shrieking that issued forth from the man.

                “I must say, I was _not_ expecting that,” murmured Aramis.

                Louis loudly carried on for another ten seconds before deciding more needed to be done.

                “Athos! Not Athos! Don’t die! You can’t die! You’re my **_favorite_** Musketeer!”

                “There’s no glory in this kind of trickery!” hissed Porthos.

                “Wake me when he’s done.” Aramis closed his eyes and settled his forehead on his folded arms.

                “Why aren’t they coming out?” Louis whined and stomped his foot.

                “Well, sire, they did look rather tired. We’ve guarded you all day with little more than an hour break. Porthos fought valiantly for you all evening long, and Aramis tends to get a bit testy right before exhaustion overtakes him.”

                Porthos and Aramis heard Athos’ words clearly from where they were hiding, and Aramis’ head shot up at the mention of his name.

                “He’s right, you know,” Porthos whispered and bumped shoulders with his brother. The marksman allowed his head to drop down once more, the simple move indicating his acceptance of his brothers’ assessment.

                “He was quite testy with me before we started playing,” Louis agreed.

                “Perhaps we could return to the Louvre then?”

                “After Tréville, you are the wisest of my Musketeers, Athos. Have you ever considered a life of politics?”

                “Not if I can avoid doing so, sire,” Athos replied and then began whistling an old French lullaby as he escorted the king back to the palace.

                The trio had become increasingly fond of whistling various tunes as signals for the others. The tune drifting back to Porthos and a dozing Aramis denoted the all-clear, so Porthos coaxed Aramis back to a state of wakefulness and crawled out from under the platform. Together they followed after Athos as the Louvre was closer than the garrison and they had no desire to let their brother walk the streets of Paris alone.

                When they were finally on their way toward warm, comfortable, soft, and oh so welcoming beds, Athos redirected his brothers toward his personal lodgings.

                “It’s closer,” he said in response to their confused glances and drowsily lifted brows. “Oh, and Aramis? The king made me promise to remind you that you’re to be confined to the garrison for a week beginning at noon tomorrow as punishment for breaking his rules.”

                “Thought it was two weeks,” Aramis questioned around a yawn.

                “You’re not the only one with a silver tongue.”

                “At least the armory’s gonna be real clean for a week,” Porthos laughed and dodged a lazy punch half-heartedly thrown in his general direction.

                “On the bright side, I didn’t get hurt this time.” Aramis was immensely glad that he could walk away from babysitting the king uninjured.

                “A pity. It’s easier to keep you in the garrison when you’ve been wounded,” Athos mused as though he were considering inflicting harm upon Aramis for just that purpose.

                “I’ll hold him, Athos!” Porthos grabbed Aramis, the marksman twisting out of the grip with an agility that belied his weariness.

                “Oh, no you don’t!” Aramis cried and ran ahead of Athos and Porthos, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.


	6. For Sure This Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Snow-Glory. :D
> 
> Set somewhere early in Season 1, probably between 1.02 and 1.03.

                At one end of the field on which the king and his hunting party camped, Aramis reclined against his saddle with his hat resting atop his face while his hands were loosely clasped over his midsection. As he sat there basking in the mid-afternoon sun and whistling a lazy tune of his own making, he appeared the picture of innocence.

                Disappearing into the trees at the field’s opposite end were Porthos, Athos, and a rather confused d’Artagnan.

                “What are we doing?” the young man asked as they moved deeper into the forest.

                “Winning,” muttered Athos, and Porthos laughed in a low and somewhat predatory tone.

                “Hiding,” Porthos added.

                “From…?”

                “Aramis,” Athos stated.

                “That cheeky little devil,” grumble Porthos. “We’re _going_ to win this time.”

                “Pick a tree,” Athos spun in a semi-circle, arms wide and indicating the multitude of choices offered by the woodland surrounding the three of them. “Climb it and don’t come down until we give you the all-clear.”

                “And where are you two going?” d’Artagnan suddenly felt as though his brothers were abandoning him to some unknown fate, or worse, this was all some sort of elaborate initiation stunt; send the new recruit up a tree and see if he lasts the night. Despite his hesitation, d’Artagnan began inspecting the trees around him.

                “Don’t take too long, whelp. You’ve a few minutes at most before he comes looking.”

                d’Artagnan looked up to acknowledge Porthos’ words but after whipping his head in every direction, found that both Porthos and Athos had vanished without so much as a swaying or broken branch to mark their passing. Shaking his head, he chose a tree and scaled it with ease.

 

                Athos, for his part, tried not to focus overmuch on the direction he moved in. He knew what he was looking for, a bush formidable enough to conceal him but not so dense that he couldn’t see Aramis, or anyone else coming. After all, their impromptu game of hide-and-seek and brief respite from duty did not mean that potential threats to the king’s safety were also going to take the afternoon off.

                The hunting trip had been, as Aramis had described it only minutes before, royally dull; in Athos’ experience, that meant things would get incredibly interesting very soon, either because of their impending doom or their boredom would drive them to do something highly entertaining if not outrageously stupid. Athos chuckled softly to himself. They were playing _hide-and-seek_ ; that itself was typically a sign of coming misfortune. But this time he and Porthos had taken extra measures to ensure that someone, _anyone_ other than Aramis won and so had somehow managed to convinced d’Artagnan to hide without telling him they were engaged in a generally hazardous game of hide-and-seek which Aramis was so irritatingly skilled at winning.

                It wasn’t long at all before he found exactly the sort of shrubbery he’d been after. Checking first for any poisonous plants or creatures lurking in his chosen hiding place, he circled the bush before skillfully slipping within its branches.

 

                Porthos darted deep into the woods, all the while trying to outthink Aramis. He knew the strategy with which the marksman approached the game was first the strategy he used when stalking prey and targets alike, but he was having some difficulty outsmarting his brother.

                D’Artagnan was adept at climbing trees, so much that Porthos was convinced the youth must be part squirrel. As such, if Aramis knew to look for d’Artagnan, he would not discount the tree-tops as hiding places. But Porthos couldn’t hide in the trees the way d’Art could. The upper branches would provide the greatest shelter, but the thinner branches of the canopy couldn’t support his mass of muscles, leaving him bound to earth and water.

                Athos was a strategist, so he would, whether he realized it or not, pick a place with a vantage point yet offered some form of defense. He’d take to a bush or possibly a rock formation. There was no way Porthos cold hide in a bush without destroying the poor shrub in the process. From where Porthos paused to survey the landscape around him, he could see no rocky places suitable for disappearing into. He released a heavy sigh and decided that, ultimately, he needed to outsmart _himself_.

                When he lifted his foot to move on, the toe of his boot caught on a root previously camouflaged by the mud he’d unknowingly stopped in. He was unable to recover his balance in time and so fell face first into the mud. Porthos was just about to lament the dirtying of new and pristine attire when a memory sprang to the forefront of his mind.

                _“Hide-and-seek, like love and war is all about knowing you opponent.”_

_Porthos nodded but then shook his head in confusion._

_“Our beloved king,” the half-Spanish man said with a dose of sarcasm, “is a clean man. In fact, he’s a clean nobleman.”_

_“So he likes being clean?”_

_“Which means he dislikes being dirty, even if he’s drunk. Once he gets back up to come looking for us, he’s not going back to the ground willingly.”_

                Porthos knew Aramis was fully aware of what Porthos was wearing. His friend had even questioned his choice of clothing earlier that day, so he surely wouldn’t go looking for him in a mud puddle, right?

                Feeling quite inspired by the fiendish root that caused his downfall and uncaring since his clothes were now covered in a thick coating of mud, Porthos rolled onto his back and wiggled down in to the dirt, even smearing the filth over his face and all through his hair.

                _And I, Porthos,_ he thought, _Prince of Thieves, go to ground or hide in plain sight…or both._

                Thus d’Artagnan, Athos, and Porthos settled into their hiding places and waited for Aramis even as, across the field, he was being called away from his lounging and counting.

                “Aramis! Aramis, the king is hurt!”

                “What?! How?” The Musketeer was up in an instant, gathering his weapons and his medical kit even as he questioned the page sent to find him.

                “He saw you fishing yesterday and decided he wanted to catch fish the same way, but he didn’t remove his footwear and slipped on a mossy boulder. I think he’s only twisted his ankle, but he’s cursing the Cardinal for ‘convincing him to fish in such a manner’.”

                “Why he chooses to do these things when he knows the royal physician has left for Paris is beyond me,” Aramis muttered under his breath.

                As he made to follow the boy to where the king was undoubtedly wailing by the river, Aramis cast a glance to the opposite stretch of woodland and hoped his brothers could wait a few moment longer to be found. It was then he noted d’Artagnan’s absence, but he didn’t have the time to consider it further as he took off to see to the king.

 

                D’Artagnan was pleased with how still he’d managed to stay for what he was sure had to be most of the afternoon. The light was turning that breathtaking golden hue that signaled day’s end and oncoming night. He probably could have better appreciated the way the light seemed to transform the forest below if not for the bird attempting to build a nest in his hair. He’d done his best to ignore it, but then the pecking began as the winged demon worked to incorporate d’Artagnan’s hair as an important part of the nest’s structure.

                The next peck sent him over the edge both mentally and physically. He swatted wildly above his head in an attempt to dissuade any further efforts of nest-making, but the sudden movement and shifting of his weight sent him careening dangerously to one side. With arms out and wind-milling, d’Artagnan fought valiantly to redistribute his weight. Just as he was working to balance on the branch once more, the bird, having had enough of its uncooperative nest, dove straight at d’Artagnan’s head. The young Gascon had no chance or regaining his seat once more and instead plummeted to the earth below.

                He landed with a yelp followed by a groan but was fortunate to have fallen in a rather large dune of leaves. He rolled away with a few bumps and scrapes but nothing more bruised than his ego. Leaves and twigs littered his hair and jerkin, but his joy in walking away from such a fall far outweighed any concern he may have had about his appearance.

                And so, it was in such a disheveled state that d’Artagnan stumbled deeper into the wood in search of Athos and Porthos. After nearly a minute he recalled that his friends had simply disappeared earlier and he had no idea where he should begin his search for them. However  he did not have long to wonder as not three strides later a force like a whirlwind collided with him and drove him to the ground.

 

                It took Athos three minutes to realize he’d made a mistake in choosing his hiding place. In his sudden boredom and restlessness he began taking stock of the bush in which he’d placed himself. It was a decent space and would likely make a good home for a family of woodland creatures. Nothing too large, mind you, perhaps a family of hedgehogs, martens, or some other creature of that sort.

                Then he noticed a grand parade of ants marching in several lines through his space, and there he sat, right in the middle of their formations. Sure that Aramis would be in the area at any time, he sat as still as he could and wished the ants away from himself.

                His presence had clearly caused something of an uproar among the ants, and so they scattered aimlessly and in something of a panic until their lines were reformed around him. There was, however, the odd ant now and then who would crawl up his boot and breeches, and soon enough more and more of them grew adventurous. Heaven only knew how, but the wretched crawlers found their way beneath his clothes. He tolerated it for a time, although even a man of Athos’ patience had a breaking point.

                Once the ants set to biting him any place they could reach, Athos leapt to his feet and tore out of the bush. He ran blindly through the forest and ran straight into d’Artagnan, their heads knocking together and limbs becoming entangled as they crashed to the earth.

                “d’Artagnan! What are you- you’re supposed to be up a tree!” Athos regained his feet and helped d’Artagnan up before beginning to tear at his clothes in an attempt to gain some relief from the small army assaulting him.

                “I was but…there was a bird, and- I’m sorry, Athos, but what is _wrong_ with you?” d’Artagnan stood bewildered as he watched the older man practically dancing about.

                “These damned ants,” Athos muttered, “Have you seen Aramis?”

                “No. Do you know where Porthos has gone? Surely the two of you have won by now; we’ve been out here for several hours at least.”

                An almighty roar erupted from the ground as a monster rose out of the mud. D’Artagnan shrieked and Athos unleashed a foul and profane stream of Latin, Greek, Italian and every other language his education and life experiences had taught him. The mud monster’s roar soon turned to a hearty and bellowing laugh that filled the surrounding forest.

                “You should have seen you faces,” Porthos guffawed.

                D’Artagnan worked hard to regain his composure while Athos fought the urge to punch Porthos.

                 “He didn’t even come looking for us.”

                “He didn’t?” Porthos cried. “I’m offended.”

                “Surely he couldn’t have forgot he was after you. Perhaps he’s fallen asleep?” d’Artagnan shuffled from one foot to the other.

                “I doubt it. He enjoys winning far too much to have simply fallen asleep.”

                “What if he has?” Porthos asked purely out of curiosity.

                “Then we’ll wake him and make it abundantly clear that we’ve won,” Athos stated with as much seriousness as he could muster with a hoard of ants doing jigs across his skin; then he stormed off in the direction of their camp.

                “What’s eating him?” Porthos whispered to the young Gascon.

                “Ants.”

                Porthos nodded sagely as though he knew exactly what it felt like to be so swarmed with ants.

 

                Aramis shivered and pulled his cloak and blanket tighter around his shoulders. He felt miserable and desired only to be in his bed back in Paris. This, he believed, was a sure sign of how poorly he was feeling, that instead of seeking the bed of another, he yearned for his own humble lodgings.

                 For some time he’d been hovering between sleep and wakefulness, but his head aching and the tremors that ran throughout his body were denying him the rest he so desperately craved. So when the entrance to the tent he was meant to share with his comrades was thrown open with exceedingly dramatic flair, he was far from pleased. The fading light flooded into the tent and fell directly on Aramis’ face, drawing a pitiful groan from him.

                 He worked to open one eye against the light and took in the sight of his friends: d’Artagnan covered in sticks and leaves (he looked as though he’d managed to grow an impressive set of antlers despite his inability to muster some proper facial hair), Athos looking unusually disheveled and distressed, and Porthos grinning despite being coated from head to toe in drying mud.

                “What happened to you three?” he whispered.

                “Tell me you haven’t been sleeping this whole time.” Athos demanded.

                Aramis, taken aback by Athos’ tone, rolled onto his back to get a better look at his brothers as though the cause of Athos’ ire would suddenly become known to him through this new perspective.

                “Never mind us,” Porthos said, coming nearer to Aramis after catching sight of his dripping hair and the boot-shaped bruise blooming across the right side of Aramis’ face. “What have you gotten into?”

                “Our infinitely wise king decided to try fishing by hand in the river near the rapids. Fortunately, he slipped and sprained his ankle on his way down to the water. Because the king’s physician had to return to Paris yesterday, I had the _pleasure_ of tending the king.” Aramis’ words dripped sarcasm. “When I tried to wrap his ankle, he flailed and kicked my face so hard I fell into the river.”

                “It’s barely spring; that water would have felt like ice,” Athos commented. Aramis huffed a short laugh.

                “So it did,” the Spaniard agreed through yet chattering teeth. “But what of you three?”

                “You forgot,” Athos stated with a hint of a wicked grin forming.

                Suddenly Aramis recalled the game of hide-and-seek they’d been playing before he’d been called away to the king.

                “You’ve won,” Aramis conceded with a tight smile, all he could manage with the pounding in his head. “But why do you look like you’ve gone to war with the forest?”

                And so d’Artagnan began his tale of battling the bird, and Athos briefly spoke on his disruption of ant life and their continued revenge. In the end, Porthos wore a smug grin, having emerged unscathed albeit being caked in mud. He high-fived Aramis’ offered palm, the marksman offering silent praise concerning the hiding spot and subsequent victory.

                “So,” Aramis began, “while you were hiding in a mud puddle,” he pointed at Porthos, “you were defeated by a bird, and you were viciously attacked by ants,” he pointed at d’Artagnan and Athos respectively.

                Athos refused to confirm the statement as he changed into ant-less clothing.

                Aramis began laughing, previous discomfort temporarily forgotten as he imagined a small bird turning d’Artagnan into a nest before chasing the youth out of the tree. The mental image of the mighty Athos being conquered by ants was equally entertaining, so entertaining that he failed to noticed d’Artagnan and Athos moving ever closer to him.

                Porthos stepped away to change his own clothing. He had no cause to defend his honor unlike his two friends, but he also had no reason to aid Aramis at the moment. He laughed when Aramis was pounced upon but otherwise did nothing, and this was his downfall.

                “Gentlemen, friends,” Aramis called as the wrestling continued. “Shouldn’t we be after Porthos? Isn’t he the one who hasn’t been humiliated today?”

                At this Athos and d’Artagnan paused briefly to consider his words, and in the next moment they, with Aramis, turned their assault on Porthos. Eventually they grew so rowdy that the tent collapsed with the four of them yet sparring inside.

 

                Tréville was making his way across the camp to check in on Aramis when the tent fell down around his men. He shook his head and turned away. _And these are France’s elite_ , he thought as he made his way to the nearest bottle of strong wine.


	7. Last Man Standing (with dry eyes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one goes to davis_bess_666 who told me there's a version of hide-and-seek wherein one person hides and all of the other players search for the one person hiding. When a seeker finds the hider, the seeker joins the hider. The last person still searching loses.
> 
> This one is unexpectedly sad(? heartfelt? I don't know. Did you read the chapter title?) and takes place after 1.01 'Friends and Enemies'.

            “Hold up. Where’s the whelp gotten off to?” Porthos stood at the entryway to the garrison, spinning right and then left in search of the young Gascon.

            “I thought he was with you,” Athos said, eyebrow raised and head tilted back in displeasure for being delayed.

            “Nah, I haven’t seen him since mid-day. I thought he was practicing with Aramis.” Porthos and Athos turned to a wide-eyed Aramis who was already raising his hands as if to say _I’m not the boy’s nursemaid_.

            “He left me nearly two hours ago claiming he had pressing business elsewhere. I’ve not seen him since.”

            Athos frowned when the bells of Paris tolled the early evening hour. “He gave no indication of where he was going or how long he’d be gone?”

            “None at all.”

            “I don’t like it,” sighed Athos.

            “I’m worried about him,” Porthos confessed.

            “He seemed troubled when he left,” Aramis added, and the three men came to an unspoken decision not a second later.

            “We split up,” Athos stated in a tone that unintentionally bordered on ordering.

            “Last to find him loses.” Aramis purred the words, and Porthos’ eyes lit up with the challenge.

            “A game then. Right. Loser buys dinner _and_ the first round of drinks.”

            “Agreed,” Aramis and Athos confirmed in unison before the trio broke apart in search of their young friend.

            Porthos stood at the garrison’s gate for a moment and took in the directions in which his brothers were headed. A breathy little laugh escaped him as he noted the predictability of their objectives. Athos strode in the direction of alcohol (the tavern the boy often frequented in their company) while Aramis sauntered toward the potential lover (the abode of Constance Bonacieux). He shook his head and pursued an altogether different approach to their little game of find the Gascon.

            Utilizing the skills obtained during his life in the Court, Porthos scaled the nearest building with ease. The cityscape of Paris spread out before him as he stood on a rooftop the way a king stands above his people. He breathed in the city; its sights, its smells, its people. As the sounds of Paris washed over him in waves, his eyes slid closed and he rolled his head from side to side.

            He pulled in a deep breath and on his exhale mused, “If I were a Gascon farm boy…”

            The bells had yet to mark the passing of yet another hour when Porthos spotted the young man several rooftops over. He crossed the distance with all the grace of a panther and sank down in silence beside d’Artagnan.

            D’Artagnan was perched atop the apex of the roof, his knees bent toward his chest with his arms resting upon them.

            “How’d you find me?” the lad asked, voice hushed and raw.

            Porthos considered the question for a moment and decided that this was not the time to inform d’Artagnan of his previous life and the skills he’d acquired as a result. Instead he answered, “I’m a man o’ many talents.” When his companion remained silent, Porthos continued speaking hoping to draw the boy out of his shell.

            “I asked myself ‘If I were d’Art, where would I go to get away for a while’. See, Athos is checkin’ taverns, and Aramis has gone off to see if Constance knows where you’re at. But I figured you haven’t been in Paris long enough to have gone far from what you know, which narrows down the search quite a bit. Then I got to thinkin’. You told Aramis you had business to see to, and you just disappeared, so I thought maybe you needed to do some thinkin’. I imagine Lupiac’s not quite so loud as Paris.” Porthos looked to d’Artagnan in time to catch the smallest of head shakes.

            “I thought maybe after everything that’s happened recently you might be in search of a new perspective. That’s what I needed after I lost my mum. I didn’t have a dad, and suddenly I was a little kid alone in a world I wasn’t sure I had a place in. So I thought I should get above it all. I found myself a rooftop with a decent view of the city and sat watching the people going about their lives.”

            “Did you find it, your new perspective?”

            “Yes and no. I meant to stay where I was until I knew where I fit into all o’ this.” Porthos waved his hand across the horizon.

            “You didn’t figure it out?” Porthos was pleased to find d’Artagnan interested in his tale.

            “Not that day, but I climbed down with the understanding that somewhere out there was a place for me, something better than what I had. It took some time, but I found my place in this world.”

            “As a Musketeer?”

            “Yeah,” Porthos said with a smile, and they lapsed into contemplative silence for several minutes.

            There was a grunt off to their right where a grey hat with a dashing feather was peaking up over the side of the building. With one final effort, Aramis hauled himself onto the roof and then took a seat on d’Artagnan’s unoccupied right side. He studied the Gascon for a moment, meanwhile Porthos watched his brother’s brown eyes fill with understanding and empathy for the young man who’d come barging into their lives.

            “You don’t have to lock it all away, you know. The memories, the emotions, you can let them out.” That was all Aramis said before d’Artagnan abandoned the care-free façade he’d been maintaining for several days. He tipped sideways to lean against Aramis’ shoulder and buried his face in the marksman’s coat. “We’ve all suffered losses, some of us more than others, but we are none of us strangers to mourning. You got justice for your father. Now it’s time to grieve.”

            If d’Artagnan wept then, neither man mentioned it, and if the Musketeers shed a few tears of their own, no one spoke of it later. ‘Tis no easy thing to be a shoulder to cry on without one’s own heart breaking in sympathy.

            When Athos appeared nearly an hour later, he was greeted by the sight of d’Artagnan asleep on Aramis’ shoulder while Aramis and Porthos took in the especially colorful sunset, the fading light highlighting their pink eyes.

            “Have I missed something?” He whispered as he crouched by the Gascon.

            “Where’ve you been?” Aramis questioned, believing Athos should have found them far sooner than he did.

            “Tréville caught me and gave us a new mission. I’ll tell you about it in the morning. How is he?” Athos indicated the slumbering boy with a tilt of his head.

            “Exhausted,” Porthos informed him.

            “Grief does that to a person,” was Athos reply.

            “Athos?” d’Artagnan was pulled back to awareness by the sound of the older man’s voice.

            “Evening, d’Artagnan,” said Athos, sarcasm absent, the soft heart of an older brother in its place. “I believe dinner and drinks are on me tonight, if you’re up to joining us.”

            Suddenly realizing how little he’d consumed that day and hearing the growl of his stomach at the mention of dinner, d’Artagnan rushed to his feet, eliciting laughter from the Musketeers.

            “If I break my neck climbing down from here, you three owe me dinner for the next year,” Athos stated, his typical sarcasm returning and dragging d’Artagnan’s smile back with it.


	8. Dressed for Running

“Constance!” Aramis called, stumbling to a halt and panting for breath. Bent in half with hands bracing his upper body on his thighs, the Musketeer looked up with wild eyes through disheveled curls. “ _Beautiful_ Constance, most noble among women, fiercer than most men-“

“What, Aramis?” She grinned as she pinned a sheet to the clothes line in her yard.

“Is your husband at home?” He straightened, casting his gaze around the area.

“No, he is not.” Constance paused her pinning to peek at him from around yet another sheet. “Did you really flatter me only to ask about my husband?”

Aramis huffed in amusement but became increasingly antsy with every passing second. “No, see I’m in a spot of trouble and while fleeing for my life I thought I’d stop by and inquire if I could, perhaps, if it’s no trouble, hide in your home?” When he finished his plea, Constance watched Aramis attempt disappearing into his own skin as he braced for the slap he believed was headed his way.

She nodded toward the open door indicating that he should go in. As Aramis passed, she snapped him with a towel. What good was slapping him when he expected it?

Mere seconds after Aramis disappeared inside, a trio of Red Guards ran past but then doubled back almost immediately.

“Excuse me, madame, but did you see a woman run by a moment ago?”

Constance had presumed the guards were after Aramis, but when the one mentioned a woman, she found she didn’t have to fake a reaction like she thought she would.

“No, monsieur, I have not. Is she…” Constance took a deep breath to calm herself. “Is she dangerous?”

“She and her three friends are quite dangerous, madame. It would be best if you stay inside until we apprehend these criminals.”

Constance nodded slowly as she pinned the final piece of her laundry on the line. “What exactly have they done?”

“I did not witness the crime, but I’m told they attacked a group of guards without cause. Now please, madame, go inside and lock the doors.”

The man walked her to the door and bid her farewell before departing.

Constance threw the lock, and leaned back against the door, her gaze searching the ceiling. It was still very much a possibility that the Musketeer hiding in her house was, in fact, the woman the guards were after. After all, Aramis had been wearing a long cloak that concealed his entire person save his head. But his facial hair… The longer she considered the matter, the less sure she became of whether or not Aramis’ trademark facial hair had been present earlier. Eventually curiosity got the better of her, but thinking it rude and a bit odd to go after Aramis without some hospitable offering, she prepared tea and a small snack for her guest.

 

“Aramis?” She called when she reached the landing at the top of the stairs.

A distinct _thud_ came from d’Artagnan’s room followed by a muffled groan. Upon reaching the door she found Aramis crawling out from underneath the bed and rubbing the back of his head with one hand.

She cocked her head to one side as she moved to set the tray down and then help the Musketeer to his feet.

“One never knows when the Red Guard will decide to be thorough in their search.” He lifted his face while speaking, causing Constance to cover her mouth in shock.

“You shaved!” She recovered from the surprise quickly and took his face in her hands. “I’ve never seen you without that mustache! Wait a minute, what’s under the cloak?” Her hands landed on her hips, and her foot began tapping as she awaited the answer.

“Constance!” He furthered his false modesty by pulling the cloak tighter around himself.

“Aramis,” she warned, foot stilling.

The right side of his mouth hinted at a smile as he unclasped the cloak and cast it off onto the bed behind him.

Constance fought the laugh bubbling up inside her for several seconds before letting loose. She might as well enjoy herself while her husband was away.

“So they _were_ after you,” she tittered, “and the others as well?”

“It’s been an interesting morning,” he sighed and shrugged.

“I’d say so.”

She took a step back so she could full appreciate the sight of Aramis. In her time she’d seen a few men in drag, but the man before her outdid them all. He wore a teal dress that stopped just short of resting on his more feminine looking boots and had managed to convincingly stuff the bosom to give a woman’s form. The dress was sophisticated in its simplicity and perfect for blending in with the more ‘common’ women of Paris.

“You’ve only got one earring.”

Aramis’ hands immediately shot up to his ears at the news. “I must’ve lost it with the wig.” He pulled the remaining earring off and tossed it onto his cloak.

“There was a wig?! Pity I didn’t see it.”

“I looked quite wonderful.”

“I’m sure. Are- are you wearing make-up?” She stepped close once more as she noted how the lines of his face were softer than they would have been after a shave alone.

“I had a part to play.” He raised his chin as though he were an indignant actor.

“Do the others look as good?”

“They did before the Red Guards decided to prey upon us.”

“I was told the four of you attacked _them_.”

Aramis dropped onto the bed and shook his head. “Well of course they did. Why would they tell you they found four women attractive and decided they needed to get a little too friendly? What sort of gentlemen would they be then?”

“I expect you to remember that the next time a woman tries to tell you she’s been attacked.”

“My dear Constance, I am entirely aware that many men are less than honorable and seldom think with their brains. Although I will admit that today was a clear reminder.”

They were quiet for a moment while Constance poured tea and then handed a cup to Aramis.

“Where are the others then? And why exactly were you four dressed as women?”

“Someone was selling palace secrets. We did what we had to in order to find out who. We were on our way back to the garrison when the guards appeared and we were forced to defend ourselves. We split up in the hope that at least one of us could make it back to the Captain. D’Artagnan seemed to make a clean break, so if any one made it, it’s probably him.”

“Did you all shave?”

“No, somehow Athos and Porthos were allowed to cover their faces.”

“I’ll get some water, if you’d like, so you can wash your face.”

“Yes, thank you,” Aramis begged as he adjusted his stuffed chest. “How women run in dresses is beyond me…” he mumbled as Constance left the room.

 

Nearly half an hour later Constance answered her door and found the Captain of the Musketeers standing before her.

“I’m sorry to trouble you, Madame Bonacieux, but my men ran into trouble earlier today. Have you seen any of them?”

“Aramis is upstairs,” she said and bade him enter.

“D’Artagnan made it then?” Aramis inquired when Tréville strolled into the Gascon’s room.

“He did. He’s staying at the garrison until I feel he can leave without trouble. I brought clothes, well, different clothes, assuming you want them,” Tréville smirked.

“Are you implying something, sir?” Aramis’ eyebrow crawled up his forehead.

“Should I be?”

Aramis wisely chose to let that conversation die; it was not one they should have in front of a lady.

“I’m guessing by the assortment of leather here that you haven’t found Athos and Porthos yet.”

“I have not. I will not. I’ve been called on at the palace. You three are so fond of hide-and-seek, I suppose it won’t be much trouble for you to find them.” There was mischief in Tréville’s eyes, and Aramis groaned inwardly. The captain never let him live that first game down. “Try not to break a leg this time,” Tréville said with a wink before tipping his head in farewell to Constance and made his exit.

Constance stood blinking at Aramis for a minute after the captain left, not because Aramis was divesting himself of his disguise in favor of his normal wear, but because the most dangerous men she knew played hide-and-seek. And Tréville said they were _fond_ of it.

“Yes, Constance?” The marksman prompted when he began shrugging his coat on.

“You play hide-and-seek.”

“And?” He wound his sash around his coat with time-honed precision.

“Why have I never been invited?” It wasn’t what she was expecting to say, and he grinned because it was so clearly written on her face.

“My fair lady, had I known you wished to play, I would have invited you years ago. I shall not make that mistake again.”

“Good. So you’re going to let me come with you now?”

“Of course. Don’t tell d’Artagnan.”

And with that they set out in search of Porthos and Athos.

 

“Do you know where they’re hiding?” Constance had her right arm looped around Aramis’ left as they made their way down the street. She was trying to distract Aramis from lamenting the absence of his hat and the familiarity of his facial hair.

“Haven’t the faintest. If they were dressed normally I’d have a few ideas, but they’re dressed as women. It changes the game.”

Constance thought for a several strides before wondering aloud, “Would they hide in a church?”

“Why?”

“Sanctuary.”

Aramis’ expression lit up in a silent _‘ah’_. “Porthos is rather fond of Notre Dame. It’s not far from where we split up.” He looked over and down at Constance with fondness. “Good thinking.”

When they finally entered the cathedral, Constance’s steps faltered. “Where do you think he’ll be?”

Aramis flashed her a knowing smile and lifted his face to the ceiling. “Come on,” he whispered and lead her by the hand to a stair case that climbed up to the bell towers. “While in Paris, on should always look for Porthos on higher ground.”

“And when you’re not in Paris?”

“Good luck. He can disappear when he wants to.”

Many stairs later they came across Porthos leaning against the wall and gazing out across the city. Constance’s inhale was audible as she took in the view.

“There’s nothing like it,” Porthos sighed and turned to Aramis. “Please tell me you brought proper clothes.”

Aramis grinned and shook the sack hanging over his shoulder.

 

Once they’d returned to ground level and Porthos was dressed normally once more (much to Constance’s disappointment; she quite liked Porthos’ gypsy costume and the large golden hoop he’d replaced his usual earring with), the duo now a trio set off to find Athos.

“So, Porthos, I heard you boys play hide-and-seek often.”

Porthos chuckled. “Did Aramis mention how often he gets hurt playing that?”

“He did not,” she purred even as Aramis groaned at the turn in conversation. “You’ll have to tell me over dinner.”

“Hold on,” Aramis murmured when they set foot on a bridge.

“What?” Constance asked.

“Listen,” Porthos whispered, having picked up on whatever had caused Aramis to halt.

Constance slowly filtered out the hollering of street vendors, the chattering of pedestrians, the clatter of carriages on cobblestone, the clapping of horse hooves, the lapping of the Seine, the splashing- “The splashing?”

Aramis nodded and remained focused on the sound despite a rather round and self-important man shoving him aside. Suddenly he was moving in the direction of a flight of stairs leading down to the water, and Constance and Porthos scurried to catch up.

Tucked up under the bridge, casting stones into the river, and wearing a look that could curdle milk they found Athos. His dress was filthy and torn in several places. Drawing nigh Aramis tossed the sack of clothes to Athos before turning to Porthos to say, “So it’s true! Trolls _do_ live under bridges.”

Athos stood with the speed of a lightning bolt striking the earth and tossed Aramis into the Seine.

“I admit I deserved that,” Aramis sputtered when he resurfaced.

“What took you so long? You’re getting slow, Aramis.”

“Someone decided to hide out in Notre Dame’s bell tower. I can only climb stairs so fast, Athos.”

“Worth the climb, I say,” mused Porthos.

“Come on, boys. D’Artagnan’s probably decided you’ve all been arrested by now.”

There was agreement all around and more than one complaint of hunger as they wandered back to the garrison.

“Constance, stay for diner,” Aramis begged.

“What about the husband?” Porthos grunted.

“Away on business,” Aramis replied before Constance had a chance to do so for herself.

“Then you should stay,” Athos advised in that low tone of voice you would miss if you weren’t listening.

“Alright, you’ve convinced me,” she accepted.

Just then a group of Red Guards ran past shouting about a possible sighting of Paris’ most wanted women.

“Perhaps we should hurry,” she urged them.

“Yes,” agreed Athos.

“That would be best,” Aramis added.

Porthos walked backwards as he watched the guards scamper about. “Nah, we can take ‘em.”

“Porthos,” the others said in unison,

“Fine, but next time…”


	9. Love is Blind (and Clueless)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. I’m not really sure what happened here.

“I’ve never seen a woman with such beautiful hair!”

“Never?” Athos drawls. He’s been done with this one-sided conversation for the past two hours and has never envied Aramis’ and Porthos’ skill in entertaining each other more.

Since they’d stopped at the tavern for their midday meal, d’Artagnan had barely paused to breathe let alone eat and drink. The boy praised Constance’s eyes, lips, hair, sass, spirit in general, and on and on and _on_. After the first half hour, Aramis and Porthos started tearing what was left of their loaf of bread, eating a piece here and there, but for the most part creating a mountain of bread chunks on the table before them. Athos raised an eyebrow as he witnessed the playing of a game apparently dubbed ‘paper, rock, dagger’ (because _“we’re Musketeers, **not** tailors with scissors”_ ). Porthos, having won two of three matches, selected a piece of bread and exhaled as he aimed. The corner of Athos’ mouth curled skyward, an act witnessed by d’Artagnan who took it as a sign to press on with his ramblings.

Rolling his eyes, Athos returned his attention to his two juvenile brothers in time to catch sight of Porthos flicking a portion of the decimated loaf directly at the love-struck lad’s crown. As expected, d’Artagnan carried on completely unaware of the flying bread sailing across the table and pelting him.

Aramis’ turn followed after with the same result. The chunk of flakey loaf caught in the Gascon’s hair, and thus the game evolved, Aramis and Porthos attempting to lodge as much crust as possible in d’Artagnan’s locks. Unfortunately all good things inevitably come to an end, their enthusiasm leading them to lob all of their ammunition away much too soon.

The wine gone and bread all thrown away, Porthos, Aramis and Athos dread listening to the incessant babbling, and devising no effective way of silencing d’Artagnan their minds turn to other potential solutions.

“You know I think we could leave and he’d never even notice,” Porthos whispers as he leans over to where Aramis sits.

“I do believe you’re right, my friend,” the marksman replies, his subtle grin brimming with mischief.

Porthos stretches his arms and leans so far back in his chair that the two front legs leave the floor. When he returns the furniture to its rightful position, he retrieves his hat from the table and with an ease that kept him alive in his younger years, slips out of the tavern.

“Sly dog,” Aramis mutters before placing his hat atop his head. Athos responds with a questioning grunt. “It was his turn to pay, and yet he failed to.” Sauntering over to the tavern owner’s daughter, Aramis pays the bill but only after charming his way to a hefty discount. He winks at Athos and disappears outside.

Athos is left alone at the table with the yet yammering d’Artagnan. _Surely I can’t just get up and leave_ , he thinks, now irritated at being the last one to escape. He lingers for not even a minute longer before he becomes certain that should d’Artagnan attempt poetry one more time he _will_ strangle him. The moment the lad’s attention is anywhere but on Athos, the Musketeer is out of sight, trying to keep from running out of the tavern the way his horse tears away when he nears home.

However, once he exits, he can’t help making a childish dash to the stables. Porthos has already saddled his own horse and has begun saddling Athos’ while Aramis leads the two readied horses out.

By the time they ride out, d’Artagnan still hasn’t emerged.

Porthos comes to a halt in the middle of the road several miles from the tavern, and he casts a glance over his shoulder to confirm that their young friend is nowhere in sight. “Is this a good idea? Leavin’ him alone when he isn’t payin’ a bit of attention to what’s goin’ around him?”

“You may return if you wish, but he was entering round four of poetry when I left.”

“Heaven spare us his poetry,” Aramis groans. “d’Artagnan should stick to swordcraft; he’s not meant to be a writer.”

Porthos looks back and forth between his friends and the direction from which they came before turning homeward once more. Athos raises an amused brow at Porthos’ decision, and Porthos shrugs. “He knows his way back.”

\- : - : - : - : - : - : - : -

Tréville tilts his head back and sighs. He knows exactly who’s standing outside his door from the hesitant nature of the knock. “Come in, d’Artagnan.”

“Sir, have you seen Athos, Aramis, and Porthos? We were…separated yesterday on our way back from Amiens.”

“They left no word for you? Gave you no meeting place or time?”

“No, sir.”

Tréville scrubs a hand across his forehead, groans “Hide and seek” under his breath.

“Sir?”

“I said ‘wait and see’. They have no assignments today, so unless you wish to search the region for them, you’ll have to wait and see.”

D’Artagnan adopts a thoughtful expression and nods twice. “Thank you, Captain.” He exits the office and joins some of the other Musketeers in training, but after an hour, his curiosity gets the better of him. On his way out of the garrison he decides to first ask Constance where she would look for them.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : - : -

“Where would _I_ look for them?” Constance considers the cross-dressing incident but suddenly recalls Aramis telling her not to tell d’Artagnan… Did that still apply? Deciding to play it safe, she shakes her head. “I’m not sure. Perhaps you could check with Aramis’ latest mistress? Have you tried asking the Red Guards?”

“Aramis doesn’t keep me up to date on his lovers, and if I ask the guards, I’ll likely end up in prison.” After a moment’s thought, he heads to the door, saying, “I’ll start with the taverns. Maybe I’ll find Athos in one.”

“Good luck,” she wishes with a hint of pity as her door closes behind the Gascon.

For a minute Constance remains in her kitchen, hands planted on her hips, her foot tapping as she counts the seconds since d’Artagnan’s departure. “You can come out now,” she calls when she’s fairly certain her boarder won’t come bursting back into her home.

Aramis emerges from a nearby closet with a half-offended look on his face. “My latest mistress?” He clicks his tongue at her while remaining out of her reach.

“Did he say he meant to search the taverns for me? Really, is that what everyone thinks I do every moment I’m not on duty?” Athos materializes from another room.

Aramis shrugs his shoulders, and Porthos walks in chuckling. “If the boot fits, Athos.”

Athos raises an eyebrow, unimpressed with his friends.

“Why don’t you just tell him?” Constance inquires.

“Tell him we play hide-and-seek?” asks Aramis.

“Where’s the fun in that? He’ll figure it out eventually.”

Constance clucks in disapproval at Porthos’ comment despite her ability to find the whole situation quite entertaining, but it wouldn’t do to let _them_ know that. They don’t need any more encouragement. “Athos, you’re more sensible than these two; how’d you get roped into this?”

“Oh no you don’t,” Porthos rumbles, the sound of it like a boiling pot of laughter. “He’s the reason this all started.”

“It’s true.” Aramis nods attempting seriousness but being betrayed by the grin begging to be unleashed.

“I’m returning to the garrison,” Athos interjects.

“It could be hours before he heads back there.” Porthos frowns at the idea of wasting their free day hanging around the garrison instead of doing a multitude of other things.

“You can spend the time throwing recruits across the yard,” Aramis suggests as his grin finally breaks loose.

Porthos, satisfied by that thought, slaps Aramis on the back, and the trio leaves Constance in peace.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : - : -

“Where have you been?”

Three heads pop up at the question, and they watch d’Artagnan drag his feet across the yard to where they occupy their table at the foot of the stairs.

“Here.”

“Cleaning weapons.”

“Throwing recruits.”

D’Artagnan looks at each man in turn, not at all pleased to have spent an entire day scouring Paris for his three companions. “You weren’t here this morning.”

“I sleep in on my days off,” Aramis defends himself.

“What he means is he actually sleeps when he gets a day off,” Porthos corrects before shoveling another piece of meat into his mouth.

D’Artagnan exhales, the act heavy with his exasperation. He shakes his head and makes for the garrison’s exit. He’s tired and hungry, and after the day he’s had, he no longer cares why they left him in the tavern. _Perhaps_ , he thinks, _it takes a mad man to understand those three._

Behind him Porthos muses, “It’s not as much fun when the seeker doesn’t know it’s a game.”


	10. Captain Seek Pt. I

“Richelieu’s been looking to disband the regiment for months now, and you’ve just handed him the ammunition!” Tréville hissed as he paced before them. “I expect this sort of behavior from you three,” he glared at Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, “but never from you, Madame Bonacieux.”

Constance did her best not to flinch as the Captain stopped directly in front of her and growled his displeasure. When he returned to prowling around the office, she leaned as much as she dared closer to Aramis, and he slid closer to her in the hope of lending her adequate strength to survive the verbal thrashing. Having withstood many such encounters with Tréville, Aramis knew the Captain was winding down and they’d be dismissed soon.

“I don’t want to see any of you again for at least a week! Am I clear?”

“Sir, someone should stay with d’Artagnan,” Aramis protested as the others calmly fled Tréville’s presence. The previous days’ shenanigans had landed their youngest companion in the infirmary.

Tréville unleashed the full fury of his gaze upon the marksman who quickly mumbled “Yes, sir” before making a hasty retreat from the garrison. On his way out, Aramis passed Porthos asking Serge to look in on d’Artagnan if he had a moment and explain that they would return as soon as they were able.

“Now would be a good time to run,” Aramis urged and jerked Porthos toward the gate as the sound of Tréville’s footsteps could be heard stomping nearer and nearer. They emerged onto the street beyond just as the Captain appeared on the balcony to ensure that they had truly left.

“Givin’ you a bit o’ trouble, sir?” Serge squinted up at the Musketeer commander.

“When aren’t they?” grumbled Tréville before pushing off the railing and returning indoors accompanied by the sound of Serge’s hoarse, bellowing laughter.

◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊

“Too bad we aren’t banished longer,” Porthos lamented as the four of them strolled through Paris toward the Bonacieux residence.

“No, it’ll be hard enough stealing Aramis back from his lady friends as it is,” grumped Athos.

“Now wait a moment.” Aramis came to halt in the middle of the busy lane. “Contrary to what everyone seems to believe, my life is not composed solely of sexual encounters.”

“We know, Aramis.” Constance placated him even as she pulled him along. She shot an amused glance in Athos’ direction, and he responded with the slight lifting of the corner of his mouth and the crinkling of the skin around his eyes. “What would you do with the extra time, Porthos?”

“I’d go sailing.”

In an instant Constance’s mind flooded with images of Porthos as a mighty pirate lord, shirtsleeves billowing in the breeze, skin shining with a thin layer of sea mist, ginning like a madman when he spotted his prey out on the ocean waves. A giggle escaped her, and in answer to the questioning tilt of Porthos’ head she explained, “It suits you.”

“Athos, my friend, you’re green.”

“Don’t tease him, Aramis. We aren’t all meant to devote years of our lives to the crossing of oceans and seas. The steady rocking of the deck unsettles some people.” With one hand Porthos demonstrated the rise and fall of a ship cresting waves. Athos was turning a more disturbing shade with every word Porthos spoke. “He can’t help his bad experience the last time he was onboard. You see, Constance, the fool of a captain managed to send the ship right into the heart of a storm and nearly sank us. Athos wouldn’t let go of the rail until we docked.”

“I hate you,” Athos promised before turning his attention to Constance. “I imagine Tréville’s displeasure will have little effect your week.”

“It shouldn’t, but no one else needs to know that. There are a few things I’ve been meaning to do, and with my husband in Italy there’s nothing to stop me. What about all of you?”

“I swore I’d visit a friend at the earliest opportunity,” Porthos stated.

“I’ve got a few writings to catch up on, so I’ll likely be stuck in the city,” pouted Aramis.

“I haven’t decided yet.” There was a thoughtful note in Athos’ voice that Constance wished she heard more often; it made Athos sound younger, less burdened by the weight of the world.

Upon reaching Constance’s house, the bid each other farewell and good luck in their attempts to avoid Tréville’s wrath.

◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊

“Ah, Captain Tréville! The Cardinal was just regaling me with the tale of your Musketeers’ most recent use of creative and unorthodox methods.”

Thus far the king’s face was impassive, and Tréville decided that he was going to kill those four Musketeers slowly and painfully.

“He believes I should disband the Musketeers. What did you call them, Cardinal? Ah, yes, an ungovernable faction at the heart of the state. What say you to this, Captain?”

He was going to kill them one. By. One. He meant to draw it all out. Maybe if he did it publically the king would spare the rest of the Musketeers the humiliation of being disbanded.

“Your Majesty, I-,“ and before Tréville could get any further, a broad grin split Louis’ face. The king sprang away from his chair and clapped his hands in amusement.

“Did you see his face, Cardinal?”

Richelieu plastered a small and undoubtedly fake smile onto his face for the king’s benefit.

“I couldn’t resist, Tréville. Joking aside, I’ve decided that, despite the obvious risk your men faced by involving a civilian in their endeavor, the mission was successful. Their forward thinking is exactly what France needs if we are to remain a power in Europe. Send for your men and that woman; I’d like to acknowledge their service.”

There were days when Tréville seriously questioned his career choice. And his sanity.

“Sire, they are on leave. It will take at least a day to recall them.”

“Very well, have them here two days from now. That should be enough time, don’t you think, Cardinal?”

“More than enough, sire.” There was a hint of blossoming pleasure in the Cardinal’s smirk. “Good luck,” he purred once the monarch had exited the room and then followed after.

Tréville sighed and stalked out of the palace. “Always playing hide and seek,” he growled “like a bunch of oversized children.”


	11. Captain Seek Pt. 2

He was just sending a guest out when in the distance he saw Tréville headed in his direction. Aramis felt like a child caught stealing sweets. He slammed his door with as much politeness as he could muster around his mounting panic. Tréville had been exceedingly clear when he’d bellowed that he didn’t want to see Athos, Porthos, Constance, and Aramis at all for a week, yet there he was storming down the street of Aramis’ residence.

Of course he reacted the way any calm, rational being would in such a circumstance: he bolted the door, locked the windows, and hid in his wardrobe. But the longer he stood tucked away amidst the coats and finer articles of clothing, the more ridiculous he felt for hiding in his own home. He was raising a hand to push the wardrobe’s door open when a demanding rapping rattled his front door.

“Aramis, I know you’re here.”

The marksman actually pushed himself deeper into his winter coats at the sound of Tréville’s proximity.

“ _Aramis_.”

He swallowed hard and crept out of his hiding place to the door. Just as his hand met the latch, the door jumped once more under the force of Tréville’s banging, and he leapt back in alarm.

“ _ARAMIS_ , if you don’t open this door right now, I’ll break it down!”

Aramis recovered his wits and scrambled to throw the door open and prevent Tréville from following through with his promise. “Captain.”

“I don’t suppose you’re hiding the others here as well?”

“Sir?”

“The king wished to see you four and Constance, and he’s given me two days to collect all of you. So if you know where they are, tell me now.”

“Have you lost d’Artagnan?”

Tréville appeared thoroughly displeased by that suggestion, so Aramis quickly donned his coat, sash, and weapons belts before leaving with the Captain.

“Honestly I’ve no idea where they’ve gone, but I’m certain they all planned to leave Paris,” Aramis confessed as he settled his hat on his head. His mind wandered for a moment, and a breathy chuckle escaped him before he could contain his amusement. When Tréville threw him a moody and questioning look, he knew he was in trouble. “If we’d known our absence would convince you to play hide and seek, we would have disappeared long ago.”

“Believe me when I tell you that I’m only playing your stupid game because I want to see the look on Richelieu’s face when the five of you show up _on time_. Otherwise I wouldn’t bother.”

The marksman smirked, not believing Tréville at all but choosing to remain silent, at least until he could share his revelation with his brothers.

After a quick trip to the garrison for their horses, Tréville and a still smug-looking Aramis headed for the city gates. As they passed beyond the city limits, a familiar figure appeared not far ahead. A smile spread across Aramis face at the sight of the familiar bandana and build of the rider.

“Porthos.”

Tréville looked over at Aramis who pretended not to notice.

“This is the part where you tell him you’ve found him,” the cheeky Musketeer informed his captain with a wink.

Groaning as he went, Tréville rode ahead to do just that. Aramis stayed behind until Porthos twisted in his saddle to find him, and then riding up to join them he offered a mock salute to his brother.

“Why are you so happy?” Porthos’ eyes shone with a pleased sort of mischief. “You were found first.”

Aramis frowned as if realizing this for the first time, but then shrugged it off. “Well you were found before Athos, so you didn’t do particularly well either.”

“If I’d known we were playin’, I’d have been long gone.”

“Gentlemen, if I have to listen to the two of you bicker the entire way, I _will_ strangle you.”

“He won’t really,” Aramis leaned over and told Porthos as they rode behind their leader. “He won’t get to see the Cardinal’s reaction if he kills us.”

Tréville glared at them over his shoulder and urged his horse to greater speed when he heard Porthos loudly whisper, “Does he know where he’s going?”

Eventually they came to a crossroads, and there they sat for a few minutes deliberating which way Constance or Athos would have taken (if they had gone in that direction from Paris, although Tréville insisted that they had and refused to elaborate on this hunch).

“His estate’s that way,” Tréville said and pointed to the road on their right.

“There’s a splendid little vineyard down that road,” Aramis mused, peering into the distance where the road on their left vanished on the horizon.

“Then he’s gone ahead.” Porthos’ words were full of confidence, and the others looked at him with questions obvious in their eyes. “Well, he said he hadn’t decided what he was going to do. Sounds to me like he was after an adventure.”

Tréville considered this for no more than three seconds before taking the road ahead of them. The trio continued on in that direction until the afternoon light began fading from the sky; then they sought a suitable place to camp for the evening. It was during that search that Aramis spotted a small fire hidden among the trees off one side of the road.

“Bottle o’ wine says that’s Athos,” Aramis bet as he nudged Porthos in the ribs with his elbow.

“Deal.”

In the end Aramis was right. At first Athos looked unhappy to have been found after being promised a week of leave, but once he came to the same realization that Aramis had come to earlier (that is, that Tréville was playing hide and seek and that he was the last of his brothers to be found) he looked incredibly pleased, one side of his mouth rising in amusement.

“Who did you find first, Captain?” Athos looked between Aramis and Porthos and eagerly awaited the name of the day’s greatest loser.

“Aramis,” Tréville answered without looking away from his meal.

“That is interesting.”

The marksman rolled his eyes; it would be some time before he lived this down. Thus he decided a change of topic was in his best interests. “How do you plan to find Constance?”

“I don’t. I left a note at her house. God only knows where that woman’s gone off to, so I thought if I could find the rest of you, I would have, at the very least, found the individuals I’m actually responsible for.”

“Aramis, I bet you that bottle of wine Constance shows up at the palace tomorrow.”

“My dear Porthos, only a fool bets against Constance Bonacieux.”

 

Early in the afternoon of the next day, Tréville, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis arrived at the palace and found d’Artagnan and Constance already there and waiting for them.

“Constance wins,” Athos purred, causing d’Artagnan to tilt his head to one side in a silent question.

“It’s nothing, lad,” Porthos told him and walked with the Gascon into their audience with the king.

When the king demanded the Musketeers and Constance walk with him in the gardens and tell him how they’d managed to complete their mission when others had failed. As the party filtered out of the hall, Tréville locked eyes with Richelieu whose nostrils were flaring and his mouth was set with sour displeasure. The Musketeer Captain dipped his head in a hollow gesture of respect to the First Minister before taking his leave of the palace grounds.


	12. Found You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Deana.

He's cold. He's alone. He aches. Leaves and dirt fill his mouth, are caught in his hair. The crows scream on and on and on. He's wearing nothing but his braies, and he's got no idea where he is. He can't move for his body will shut down from the pain. He shouldn't sleep else the cold claims him.

But he can't keep his eyes open.

Can't seem

              to                                focus

or

                                                                                          stay

 

 

awake...

 

Athos finds the bed Aramis has been occupying at the garrison slept in, yet empty. This taken together with the door hanging ajar has Athos concerned. Add to that the presence of Aramis' standard wardrobe right down to the man's favorite pair of socks. Athos is now beyond concern because Aramis has either decided that going about in one's undergarments is the latest trend in fashion or he left the garrison in something other than his right mind.

Throwing any potentially necessary garment as well as a blanket into one of Aramis' packs, Athos, with every bit of comte-like calmness he can muster, heads directly for Tréville’s office, inquires about the missing man, and descends the stairs to the yard below with growing unease.

"Gone? What do you mean gone?" d'Artagnan asks, the crust of bread in his hand immediately forgotten.

"He didn't leave a note or anything?" Porthos is already standing, hat on his head, ready to leave in search of Aramis.

"He didn't bother dressing. I doubt he thought to leave a note."

Athos' words halt Porthos for only a moment before he's headed out the gate with increased determination.

"His horse is here," calls Tréville while exiting the stables.

"Should someone stay here in case he turns up?"

Three sets of eyes land on d'Artagnan before Tréville decides "d'Artagnan, you stay here. Try not to destroy the city while I'm gone."

And with that, Tréville, Athos and Porthos depart. They never split up, instead methodically sweeping through the streets as a unit, asking if anyone's seen Aramis ("a man about my height with dark, curly hair, indecently dressed..."). They haven't been searching for a full hour before they find someone who's seen their lost comrade.

"Yeah, I think I saw 'im. Scars on 'is chest? Face that'd woo ladies and angels alike?"

"Yeah, that's him." Porthos vibrates with energy beside Athos.

"Can you tell us which way he went?"

The white haired, old man thinks for a second before nodding and pointing in the direction of the nearest city gate. "I 'ope you lads find 'im. 'e was stumblin' along like 'e was sleepin'."

The three companions make haste to the gate, verifying along the way that Aramis had truly traveled by there during his nocturnal adventure. Passing beyond the city walls, they begin searching for Aramis' tracks in the dirt now that they are without the continuous stream of witnesses.

"Have you noticed the way the nature of hide and seek reflects our creed as Musketeers?"

Porthos looks up from the road and over at Athos. "You mean "All for one and one for all?"

"We're either all seeking one-" Athos begins.

"Or one seeking the others," finishes Tréville.

"Funny how life works." Porthos stops to bend down and inspect a sharp rock protruding from the dusty path. Its razor edge is painted brown with dry blood, and Porthos hisses at the kind of agony that would have been felt by the poor sole that stumbled upon such a rock.

Athos comes alongside Porthos and, spotting the bloodied menace, follows the resulting footprint further from the city and then away from the road. "The trail heads off towards the forest."

Tréville sighs and moves in that direction, ever watching the trail of trampled grass and a semi-bloody footprint.

"He hasn't gone sleep walking in a while," Porthos comments as they press into the forest.

"He picked a fine time for it," Tréville grumbles in concern. "Half-naked with winter coming, he's probably freezing out here."

"Has he caught something from one of the men? He's been tending to Jacques and Henrí for nearly a week now." Athos doesn't like being the bearer of bad news, but Aramis falling ill is a very real possibility that can't be ignored.

"Well if he's picked up their fever, we'd better hurry up and find him," Porthos states and picks up the pace.

 

Cold again.

Crows and yelling.

Not screaming.

Crows, crows, crows, Tréville.

Tréville?

No, Athos.

Athos and Tréville.

"Aramis!"

And Porthos.

Warm, warm like Porthos.

 

"Aramis!"

Athos hears the difference in Tréville’s tone and whips around with such force that his neck will probably hate him for it later. When he sees Aramis face down in the fallen leaves, he bolts toward his fallen brother and shoos the crows as he nears. Tréville is right next to him when he crashes to his knees at Aramis' side. Porthos arrives not a heartbeat later, leaning in and softly calling "Aramis". Their trembling brother gives no response until Porthos turns him onto his back and pulls him to his chest. Aramis leans his head against Porthos' chest and sighs, his body seeking warmth despite the fever raging within.

Tréville sets about wrapping Aramis' bruised and bloody feet while Athos fishes out Aramis' clothing. Porthos brushes the forest floor from Aramis' face and pulls the larger bits of twig and leaf from his hair.

Through his fever haze Aramis hears Porthos whisper, "Found you, little brother. We found you."

"Found me," he breathes out and then feels Porthos' forehead gently meet his own. You found me.


	13. When in Rome

                “Go to Rome, you said. It’ll be fun, you said,” Athos growled while pacing back and forth before Aramis.

                “You were having fun-“

                “d’Artagnan’s loose! This is the opposite of fun.”

                “Athos, you worry too much,” Aramis informs him, his tone irritatingly calm.

                “No, I worry _exactly_ the right amount.” Athos whirls around to face his friends only to find Aramis alone leaning against the wall. “Where’s Porthos gone?”

                Sighing, Aramis tilts his head toward the crowded square where Porthos stands with a young woman flicking coins into the fountain at the square’s center.

                “Porthos,” Athos hisses, and Porthos returns to his friends by only after bidding his lady friend goodbye with a kiss of her hand and a wink.

                “She’s pretty,” comments Aramis.

                “Yeah,” Porthos chuckles and his cheeks color.

                “Does she have a name?”

                “Of course she’s got a name.”

                “But do you know it, Porthos?”

                “Claudia.”

                Aramis beams at his friend’s achievement and heartily chomps on his apple.

                “Oi, you got another?”

                Out of some apple-concealing pocket, Aramis produces a second apple and tosses it to Porthos.

                “Gentlemen,” Athos groans. “I’m going to find d’Artagnan.”

                “Are we splitting up or searching as a group?” Aramis asks through a mouthful of partially chewed apple.

                For nigh on a minute Athos only looks back and forth between Porthos and Aramis before deciding, “You two go back to our rooms. I’ll find d’Artagnan, and meet you there.” Athos turns to leave but stops when Porthos calls to him.

                “You’ll probably need this.” He holds out their hastily sketched map of the city, and Athos snatches it and walks away.

                Porthos and Aramis track his progress through the crowd, and when he reaches the opposite end of the square, they slip into the nearest alley.

                “You’d think Athos would learn to make his directions more specific. As long as we get back to the rooms at some point, we’re fine.”

                “I think,” Aramis muses, “he suspects we still wouldn’t obey if he was as specific as possible.”

                “True.”

                The duo continues sauntering down the alley until two scrawny, lightning fast children sweep past them and disappear like phantoms, taking Aramis’ and Porthos’ money with them.

                “Shall we give chase?” Aramis queries.

                “Not unless you’ve become intimately familiar with the back streets of Rome.”

                On they wander with no real purpose according to Aramis’ theory that if d’Artagnan is as lost in this city as they are, then walking nowhere with any speed or intention will be the quickest way of finding him. Porthos shakes his head at this but goes along with it because he likes exploring the city this way, going wherever their feet may take them. When the bells toll noon, their stomachs grumble like wolves howling at the moon.

                “Do you think any of the shops give out free samples?”

                “Porthos, I think that would only worsen my hunger.”

                “I hate being broke,” Porthos grumps, kicking at the loose stones around his feet.

                Aramis grabs Porthos’ arm and pushes up onto his tiptoes in an attempt to see over the people surrounding them.

                “What are you doing?” asks Porthos.

                “I’ve just had an idea.” A half-mad grin spreads across Aramis’ face. Inside Porthos’ mind all manner of alarm bells and warning signs beg Porthos not to participate in whatever scheme Aramis is about to unleash upon the unsuspecting people of Rome. It won’t end well. It _can’t_ end well, yet Porthos goes along with Aramis regardless. After all he’s hungry, and if Aramis has a plan to fix that, it’s worth a try.

◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊

                Athos is close to loathing Rome, but he refrains because the city isn’t to blame for d’Artagnan wandering off and the others being far from helpful. So he trudges on turning the map this way and that, the lack of clearly labeled directions or landmarks making it near impossible to decipher.

                When a street musician bursts into a Spanish ballad, Athos growls under his breath, crumples the poor excuse for a map, and throws it over his shoulder. He could hardly think before, but now that he’s also being forced to listen to street entertainment he’s storming away from the crowded area. With luck he’ll find d’Artagnan before he himself is lost in this city. He’d never hear the end of it from Porthos and Aramis then.

◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊

                “I’m impressed,” Porthos grins at Aramis. Aramis for his part only nods in acknowledgement of Porthos’ praise, the rest of him engaged in singing in playing for money. Beside Porthos sits the owner of the guitar; in exchange for a share of the earnings, the man was gracious enough to loan his instrument to Aramis.

                On and on Aramis sings and plays until he’s earned enough for Porthos to adequately gamble with. Then he returns the guitar, and they slip into one of the alleys they’d strolled through earlier, having passed a variety of cards games and dice previously. Aramis, assuming Porthos intends to employ his usual game-winning strategies, heads toward the card games, but Porthos’ hand on his shoulder quickly halts his progress in that direction.

                “I want to try something different,” Porthos whispers, dice in hand.

                Aramis sweeps an arm in the direction of the dice related activities. Porthos dips his head and saunters through the area of play, passing several games of Liar’s Dice without so much as a second glance. Unable to keep from smirking Aramis recalls why Porthos doesn’t touch that game. _“It leaves too much to chance”_ , he’d said. With any other man Aramis would argue that it’s hardly different from cards, but what he understands about Porthos is that Porthos cheats out of survival instinct, more often not to fill his stomach or someone else’s. With cards he can cheat and cheat well. _Why then is he playing dice today?_

                When Porthos settles on a game where the object seems to be to roll sevens, Aramis figures it out. Porthos’ dice are loaded. All is well until Porthos gets sloppy while changing between a loaded and unloaded pair, and then the duo finds themselves running for their lives from first the other gamblers and then the city guards (who are far more efficient in their duty than those found patrolling the streets of Paris). It takes little time for the guards to corner Porthos and Aramis in a dead-end alley, clap them in irons, and haul them off to prison.

                While being tossed into a foreign slammer is dreadfully low on their vacation to-do list, the two can’t help but laugh and enjoy this strange moment when they recognize their cellmate to be none other than the previously misplaced d’Artagnan.

                “Athos is gonna kill you,” Porthos informs the lad with a grin that says he’ll enjoy watching the young man suffer their elder companion’s displeasure.

                “He won’t spare you,” d’Artagnan shoots back although doubt creeps into his words.

                “Of course he will. We found you after all.” Aramis leans back against the wall, hands behind his head and legs crossed, idiotic grin lighting his face.

◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊

                Beyond desperate, Athos begins searching jails for d’Artagnan. Well after the sun sets, he enters what he’s decided will be the last prison for the night. The jailer’s recognition of the Gascon’s description is equally relieving and infuriating, but looking into the cell and finding not only d’Artagnan but also Aramis and Porthos is too much after wandering the city in search of their youngest comrade.

                “I’ll be back for them tomorrow,” he promises the keeper of the keys and returns to their rooms at the inn. This calls for wine. Lots and lots of wine. And if he forgets to collect his ‘friends’ tomorrow because of his hangover, maybe they’ll finally learn their lesson however unlikely that may be.


	14. Cardinal v. Captain

                He met her in the gardens once she’d sent her ladies away. They both recognized the folly of meeting in such an open and public space, but she enjoyed the way danger drew out the mischief in his eyes much as it had when he saved her during the incident with Vadim and on so many occasions thereafter. She loved it all the more now that she carried his child, although no one else knew she was pregnant. Part of her feared that saying such a joyous thing out loud would invite tragedy; after all it had happened once before.

                He gave no verbal greeting but stooped low before her, and when he stood, she stepped near to him like she had in the monastery and, placing her hand over the gifted rosary resting on his chest, leaned in to whisper to her Musketeer because, despite their past losses, he should know about their child. But ere she could move closer than what would be deemed appropriate for a Queen and her soldier, a page came skittering around a hedge.

                “Your Highness, the king requests your presence immediately,” the boy huffed.

                “Has something happened?” Aramis eliminated the distance between himself and the page in the span of a heartbeat; the boy shook his head hard enough to throw his hair from side to side and staggered back.

                “He’s bored and wishes the Queen to join him.”

                “Please inform the King that I am on my way.”

                Once the page disappeared around the hedge, Anne turned back to Aramis with a twinkle in her eyes. “Escort me, Aramis. The gardens can be such a dangerous place, and I should not be left alone.”

                His easy smile came and went before he bowed once more and assured Anne that “It would be both an honor and a pleasure” to see her safely through the treacherous expanse of shrubbery.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                Porthos very nearly burst into boisterous laughter when the king’s expression dropped, like icing melting in direct sunlight, as Aramis entered his field of vision.

                “Aramis, you were not invited. I shall have your head for this!”

                Aramis managed to maintain a blank expression in response even as he found himself flanked by Red Guards, although Tréville moved forward to defend his man in tandem with the other Inseparables. Queen Anne, however, beat the Captain to it.

                “Sire, Aramis was only escorting me here from the gardens at my request. Had I known his loyalty would be met with execution, I would not have asked him to accompany me.” Anne spoke softly, but her words and the thinly veiled chastisement in them were clear and caused the Cardinal to splutter where he stood several feet away.

                “Forgive my haste. I’d forgotten your love of horticulture,” Louis returned although there was a fiendish glint in the king’s eyes. “Of course you’re familiar with this game, Aramis.”

                “Which game is that, Your Majesty?” Although, truth be told, Aramis feared he did indeed know the game the king wished to play.

                “Hide and seek.” Louis took a moment to stare Aramis down as though daring the Musketeer to object to the game or muster some reason to be elsewhere, but the marksman remained silent and standing just as he had been prior to the king’s reveal. “Cardinal Richelieu,” the king began as he turned his attention onto the person with the sourest reaction to his proposal. “You will seek first. Everyone must remain on the palace grounds. Richelieu will count to…. What shall he count to, Tréville?”

                “300 perhaps?”

                “300 it is then, but you will count very slowly, Cardinal. My Musketeers need ample time to hide away.”

                For several seconds everyone stood looking at the king, waiting for some further instruction or clear indication that his game had, in fact, begun.

                “My dear Cardinal, you’re not getting any younger. We’re ready when you are.”

                And with that, the king sauntered away to find a clever hideout.

                “D’Artagnan, stay near the king. I’ll not sacrifice the His Majesty’s safety for the sake of a game.”

                “I’ll remain with the Queen, Captain,” Athos stated before Tréville could foolishly assign the task to Aramis.

“One,” began the Cardinal while d’Artagnan scurried away to tail the king. The remaining Musketeers and Queen went their separate ways, yet Porthos took his time, backing away rather than turning and walking.

                “No peeking, Minister,” he purred, and he winked ere disappearing amidst the greenery. Porthos ducked and wove through the sculpted shrubbery back to the palace and into the servants’ quarters. It seemed incredibly unlikely that the Cardinal should go looking for any one there among servants. After all, who goes to the rooms of common people when in the home of the king?

                Meanwhile the king tiptoed through the palace, giggling and commanding every person he passed that, under no circumstances, was his direction or location to be told to the Cardinal or his lackeys.

                “Sire, do you expect the Cardinal to cheat?” D’Artagnan asked once he finally caught up to Louis.

                “Of course he’ll cheat! D’Artagnan, one does not simply command a small army without using them to your advantage, but I intend to use his advantage against him.”

                “How exactly?”

                Louis did not answer but continued to lead on until they entered Richelieu’s private study.  The king moved straight for the back wall and opened a door to what d’Artagnan would classify as a small closet.

                “The Cardinal doesn’t know I know about this, but occasionally I pop in to see if he’s hid a particularly good vintage in here. Come in, d’Artagnan, quickly before he comes looking.” His Majesty waved the young Musketeer in and shut the door once both were tucked safely inside.

                Silence and darkness followed. Suddenly d’Artagnan wished Richelieu would find them posthaste.

                Now Tréville, being a man of great wisdom and an empty stomach, strolled into the kitchens in search of a good meal. Honestly he could not have cared less if the Cardinal found him or not. The Garrison needed Tréville in order to function, and Tréville needed food in order to have the energy to keep his men in line.

                Swinging up into the rafters of the stables, Aramis made himself at home in his hiding place with a good book and a better vantage point. And should he fail to see someone coming, he could always rely upon the horses to give up some indication of approaching guests, just as they did once he’d read a page and half.

                Following the horses’ warning, Aramis picked up on the angelic sound of his Queen’s voice promising Albert, the young stable boy on duty, that she would smuggle all the sweets he could possibly want from the kitchen for him when he was dismissed for the night. A second later, Anne and Athos entered the stable. The Musketeer took no more than three steps inside before leaning against the wall, crossing his arms, and sighing, “Tell me this wasn’t planned.”

                “Athos?” The Queen questioned, truly unaware that she and Athos were not alone among the horses and their stalls.

                The swordsman simply pointed to where Aramis perched against a joint in the rafters. One of the marksman’s legs swung merrily away while he waved with book in hand.

                “I assure you I had no knowledge of Aramis’s hiding place. I thought this a perfect opportunity to visit the horses.” As if to prove her point, she stroked the nose of the nearest horse which happened to be Athos’s own.

                “What’s the Cardinal at?” Aramis dangled from one of the beams before dropping to the stable floor.

                “300 apparently. He’s in the palace.”

                “Only a matter of time then,” the marksman grinned and plucked several apples from a nearby barrel, keeping one to chomp on and offering one to the Queen who in turn fed it to Athos’s mount.

                Ere Aramis could reach the core of his apple, the disappointed shouting of the King could be heard all the way in the stables where Anne stifled a laugh at her husband’s pouting.

                Richelieu felt it a beautiful kind of revenge to find the king and d’Artagnan first. At least Richelieu found them on his own; to find Athos and the Queen he’d used his Guards. What a coincidence that once more finding the Queen led him to Aramis as well. A matter to investigate later, to be sure.

                Porthos was not found. On the contrary, he’d become so bored that he found the Cardinal to save the man the trouble. However, Porthos found it exceedingly amusing that Aramis, the Aramis who thought himself so adept at the game of hide and seek, had been found before himself.

                “Oh, shut up. He cheated.”

                “Still counts,” Porthos countered with a grin followed by a great guffawing laugh when Aramis tackled him in the hope of regaining lost honor.

                “Children,” scolded Athos, his raised eyebrow letting his fellow Musketeers know exactly who was going to end their tussle.

                Looking around to identify who was left to be found, d’Artagnan asked, “Where’s the Captain?”

                “It doesn’t matter. The Cardinal cheated; therefore, this game has been a complete waste of time." With that, the King stomped away, Queen Anne following a safe distance.

                The Musketeers glanced from one the next, pondering what their next move should be.

                “I need a drink.” Athos strolled back to the stables for his horse.

                “I’m hungry.”

                “d’Artagnan, you’re always hungry,” Aramis pointed out.

                “He’s a growing boy, Aramis.”

                “And what’s your excuse, Porthos?” The marksman ducked the swat headed his way and scuttled into the stables after Athos.

                Much later that night, Tréville found the four of them still planted in their favorite haunt.

                “Captain, where’ve you been?” Porthos slid his chair to the right to make room for Tréville while Athos poured their fifth member a drink.

                “I ate lunch and then went to my office where I managed to complete a week’s worth of paperwork and then some without being interrupted. Based on the scurrying of servants and endless ranting, the Cardinal’s still looking for me, so I think I’ve won.”

                “Indeed, you have,” Athos confirmed with a smile and raised his drink to toast the Captain’s victory.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Go Find Your Own Place To Hide! (Or: An entire Palace and no good place to hide.)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6229819) by [RitaMarx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RitaMarx/pseuds/RitaMarx)




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